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blooblooded · 2 years

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Magic in the Northern Territories

“The old woman had appeared to be most friendly, but she was really an old witch who had waylaid the children, and had only built the little bread house in order to lure them in. When any child came into her power; she killed, cooked and ate him, and held a regular feast day for the occasion. Now witches have red eyes, and cannot see far, but like beasts, they have a keen sense of smell, and know when human beings pass by.” Hansel and Gretel, The Brothers Grimm.

FLORENCE AND FLICK

Against her better judgment, Florence Gauthier sought out the witch who was rumored to live in the Hinterlands woods. She was only 16 years old and had a problem that needed taking care of.

It took a day to travel from the gentle rivers and valleys of the Strath to the scrubby pine forest of the Hinterlands. She told her maid that she was leaving to visit her mother in Ile de Matane, nobody would suspect that she would go east. Out of all the Northern Territories, this was the wildest, the least populated. Perhaps that was why it was said that the witch lived there.

It was easier than she imagined it might be to find the witch’s house. Some fur-trader had pointed out the path for her when she came across him laying his traps. If Florence had been anyone else, she might have been afraid that this stranger might figure out what she was up to. But she was married to the Duke of the Strath and did not feel frightened at all. She preferred the presence of the common people to the Nobility.

To be safe, she dressed like one of the peasants. Just a simple wool gown that came down to her elbows and a shaw of rabbit fur. She tied her black hair back in a braided knot. No jewelry, nothing that could be stolen. It was safer that way.

Even seeing the witch’s house did not frighten her. It was just a little cottage. Two stories. A chimney. Stained glass windows. The thatched straw roof was all covered in moss. It looked the same as every other forest-peasant house in the Northern Territories. Florence had seen worse. The twisting stone hallways, cold rooms, and unsmiling portraits in her own estate were far worse. The Duke had taken to one of those cold rooms on their wedding night and she had decided that there was nothing worse than those portraits staring down at her.

“You can call me Stasya,” said the witch, not long after she invited Florence inside. Her accent marked her as being from Kimanka, that wretched bog-land full of savages. She was just a normal woman. A beautiful woman, maybe in her late 30’s. Stasya’s face was heart-shaped and tan, her long dark hair framed it in a pleasing manner. The clinging black dress she wore accentuated her exaggerated hourglass shape in a way that was almost obscene.

Florence sniffed when she heard that. What sort of adult chooses to be called by such a childish diminutive? It was the kind of nickname the parents from Kimanka called their children; Alyosha for Alex, Petya for Peter, and the like. It was strange and unsettling to hear a woman twice her age call herself that. “Stasya,” she repeated. “Right. Fine. Will you help me or not?”

She took a cup of tea that the witch handed to her but didn’t drink it. Every fairy tale her mother had ever told her about witches warned against consuming anything they gave you. That was how they trapped you. They liked to lure children into their homes with bread and sweets so they could eat them with their sharp teeth. Was Florence still a child? She wasn’t sure.

Stasya’s teeth were normal. She had a gentle smile and her lips were painted red. “Show me your right hand,” she said.

Wordlessly, Florence extended her hand with the palm facing up. The witch took it and traced a finger up the middle. It sent a shudder running down her spine. “You’re reading my future?”

“Not many are able to see the future. Only those few whose minds are merged to the land beyond the stars. This only allows me to guess your fortune based on your character.” Stasya pressed into her hand. She smelled of peppermint and something else too, something like the greasy musk of snakeskin. “Your life-line and your line of Fate are merged together. Ambitious. Confident. If you were a man you would be a great leader. You could do great things.”

Florence snatched her hand away. “I will do things. I will be a leader someday. That’s why you have to help me. I’ve heard that witches are able to end pregnancies.”

“You want me to help you kill the Duke’s child?”

“I’ll pay you.” Florence felt frustration build in her chest. It was hard to stay calm. Ever since she had gotten pregnant a few months ago, it had just become harder. Everything made her angry. She would scream at the servants and smash china against the floor. It was hard to focus on things, it was hard to even read. She was sick all the time and she hated the way that her body was changing. “I don’t want Rowan’s baby. I don’t even want to be married to him. I didn’t have a choice. So I’ll pay you. I have money, I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

A moth-eaten old cat rubbed itself against her legs. Florence bit down the urge to give it a kick. She hated this. She hated asking for help. Being vulnerable made her feel weak. The witch’s cottage was dirty and smelled like dirt and sour sweat. There were bundles of dried herbs hanging from the rafters. She did not want to be there.

Stasya drank from her own teacup. She watched the girl in front of her with eyes that were ringed with black liner. For a long time she did not say anything. Florence tapped her foot impatiently.

“Well?” she demanded at last. She could not stand to wait.

“What a stupid little mouse,” said Stasya, more to herself than anyone else. Her voice was thick and oily.

Embarrassment and rage rose to Florence’s face. She was not used to being disrespected. When she spoke, people listened. They bowed or curtsied, they followed her orders. The only one above her was her husband. She stood up with her fists clenched. “Excuse me? How dare you speak to me like that?”

Stasya leaned back. “You’re a stupid girl and I’ll speak to you however I want. No, I won’t help you. A child of noble birth? That is a rare gift.” She took a tin of peppermint candies from one pocket and ate one.“You’ve wasted your time. Scurry back to your husband’s bed, little mouse, your dirty stupid Strath people won’t want to know you’ve come here begging me to end your child’s life.”

There was no controlling her temper. It had always been her weakness. Even as a child, Florence flew into rages. She’d throw things at her mother when she tried to get her ready for bed. It was hard for her. She knew that she was smarter than most people. She read more. She knew things. She knew things about the world, this one and the old one. Nobody else understood.

She would not be disrespected.

Florence drew back and slapped the witch across the face as hard as she could. She used her right hand. Her right hand, with its intertwined lines of Fate and Life. The blow rang out. Stasya’s skin was dry as paper and powdery-soft. The slap must have stung, although she was only 5 feet tall and had no muscles to speak of, the force of her rage saw to that. But the witch did not move or flinch. A red handprint bloomed across her lovely face.

This was only some peasant charlatan, masquerading as a magic user. A liar and a cheat. Not anything like the real ones. At her wedding, the owl-masked High Priest from the blood-magic town of Blagodat had attended, sitting at the left hand of the King. He had sliced into his own arm with a silver knife and compelled one of the serving girls to tear off her clothes in front of everyone. That was real magic. This was nothing.

A terrible smile twisted Stasya’s lips and she laughed. She put a hand to her face where she had been struck, then stuck the other into her pocket and cast down a pinch of herbs. She spat on the floor of her cottage. “Your son will be born broken,” she said. Her eyes glowed green. “Weak. Nameless and shameful, lower than a bastard.”

She knew a curse when she heard one. Florence bit down a scream. She whirled and knocked all the glass bottles and implements from Stasya’s table, sending them shattering to the ground. The cat was within kicking range and she sent a foot into its ribs; the yowl it produced did nothing to ease her fury. She stomped towards the door of the little cottage and flung it open. “You’ll regret this!” Her voice was high-pitched and girlish and did nothing to lend her any power. “I will make you regret this! Do you hear me? You’ll regret speaking to me like this! You should have helped me!”

“Get out of here, stupid girl,” said the witch. “Go back to your riches and your estate. There are worse things in this world than bearing a child. You’ll find that out soon enough.”

Florence slammed the door on her way out.

###

The baby was born 9 weeks prematurely, with a twisted foot and lungs that wheezed whenever he breathed. Rowan blamed her, of course. By that time he was consumed with the idea of seceding the Strath from the rest of the Northern Territories, but he still blamed her. He said that it was because she smoked too much and said that they’d just try again until they got a healthy heir.

Florence knew differently, of course. It was the witch. Stasya had cursed her for her anger. She had cursed her for overreaching, for her ambition. It was a punishment. She had stepped out of place and was being punished for it.

It didn’t work. Now she wanted two things. She wanted freedom for the Strath. She wanted the head of the Hinterlands witch. There was much work to be done.

###

The boy grew old enough to understand that there was something wrong with him. He was not like the other children. Despite everything, it made her feel bad. Her son was weak and broken. He limped when he walked. Even though she had taken him to some quack doctor who had broken every bone in his right foot to try and flatten it out, it had healed wrong and he still limped. There were mornings that he couldn’t get out of bed due to his pain and there were moments where he coughed and wheezed so severely that she thought he would stop breathing.

His name was Phillip but she called him Flick. It seemed more like a Strath name. Maybe it would help him feel less different.

She had grown fond of the boy.

“Why am I like this?” he asked her one morning, after falling into an asthmatic fit that had turned his face blue. Flick never cried. He got frustrated, but he never cried. He was a thoughtful, sly kind of child, always asking questions. He looked like she did. Dark haired and eyed, they had the same sharp faces and strong noses. “Do you know?”

Florence lit a cigarette. “You were cursed by a witch before you were born,” she said.

“That doesn’t seem true. Or possible.”

“It’s true. I was there.” He was only 9. She tried to hide how unwanted he was. Letting him know that she had never wanted him seemed cruel. Florence did her best. She encouraged him to read any book he could get his hands on. She hired men to teach him different skills: lock-picking, falconry, and how to set traps for small animals. She didn’t want him to feel useless on top of unwanted. “I slapped her because I was feeling a little too brave and she cursed you.”

Flick eyed her. His breathing was still shallow and he used a hand to push away the smoke. “There aren’t witches anymore. Reed told me that they all got killed off when Father was my age. Les yeux sanglants helped hunt them down.”

Les yeux sanglants. The bloody eyes.Thinking about what they did to people in their gore-covered town sent shivers running down her back. It was said that their High-Priest wore a mask shaped like the face of an owl, that he read from an ancient Book bound from human skin, and that he carried a sword forged from star-metal. She would get to them eventually. Florence scowled. “There are still witches in the Hinterlands woods. They kill children and make people sick. They can control the plakal'shchitsa mutants that rip people limb from limb.”

“Then why doesn’t Father kill the witches?” Her son put one hand on his chest as if measuring each lung full of air. His breath rattled. “He should kill the witches instead of fighting the Imperials.”

Somewhere to the North, Rowan and his Partisan army were up to their knees in blood, mud, and shit. They had 20,000 men from the Strath. The Imperial forces of Ile de Matane and Kimanka numbered 50,000. It was not looking good. If they surrendered, the King promised that he would not execute all of them, only their leaders. Florence prayed that they would fight to the last man.

What would happen to her and her child if they lost? She didn’t want to think about it.

Years ago, she had prayed to the gods of the Strath every night that her husband would die. Now she prayed that he would live as long as he could against the insurmountable odds. It was ironic. She knew there were no gods but she still prayed.

“There aren’t many witches left,” she said. “But there’s thousands of Imperials and the things they do to us is worse.”

“The Imperials never cursed me and made me a cripple,” Flick said. There was a touch of unusual sulkiness to his voice. It was not like him. He had never complained about being unable to play with the other children. He busied himself with his hobbies, he read. Some of the children of the Duke’s men, Charles Bouvier and Reed Kimble, would make fun of him, but Flick had never seemed bothered. “Maybe they’ll win the war. I could work for the King when I grow up and be respected.”

Florence exhaled smoke through her nose. She looked at her little broken son. “If the Imperials win,” she said. “You’ll find that there are worse things than being a cripple.

DOG AND ANATOLE

Anatole Surkhov’s father was called the Butcher of Kimanka and he was the Commander of the King’s Imperial Army.

All manner of warfare had fascinated Anatole since he was little. He liked the idea of it. It seemed noble to him. He would go to sleep dreaming of holding a bright sword, he’d dream of being a hero and fighting against insurmountable odds. When he was awake, he would study old military strategies and practice his movements in the stables with a long stick. Becoming a soldier was impossible, of course, due to the unfortunate realities of the society he lived in. But it was something to do and it was something to cling on to.

By the time he was 14, he learned that his father was not the sort of brave knight he had read about. There was a reason Mikhail Surkhov was called the Butcher.

“Get out of here, Valushka,” his father told him, giving him a swat. They were in the Great Hall of the estate, having just finished their dinner. His mother and sisters had already scurried away. The fire burned low. “The witch is coming to speak to me.”

Anatole felt himself blush at hearing the baby-like nickname for Valerie. His father had no idea that he had picked a new name for himself out of a book. He would never know, he didn’t want to think about what might happen if he found out. Something bad. He knew that the secret fantasy life he kept inside of himself was bad, but he clung onto it anyway in order to survive. Anyway, he had never been good at being Valerie. His mother said that his smooth tan face and brown curls made him pretty, he just didn’t want to be pretty.. “I’m not afraid of witches,” he said.

The Butcher was a huge man with limp blonde hair and a long beard. He wore his Imperial uniform at all times, the gold trim catching in the firelight. Wherever he walked, people treated him with solemn respect. “You should be afraid. They eat children like you.” He stroked his beard. “When I was a boy, there were witch hunters who weeded them out. Now there aren’t many left. Our new struggle is against the bloody-eyes.” He spat and made the sign against evil, his middle and ring finger pressed against his thumb.

70 miles south-east of Kimanka was the town of Blagodat. It was populated by blood magic users and was not a part of the Northern Territories. The stories that came out of that place were enough to make a grown man shudder. There were whispers about human sacrifice and blood spilt in their black temple. Rumor had it that they had poisoned the land in Kimanka with their magic until it was nothing but stinking bogs where nothing could grow and people starved.

Once, Anatole had seen the owl-masked High Priest of Blagodat. All the great families of the Northern Territories had gathered in the capitol to watch the traitor Rowan Gauthier hang. Anatole had been 10 and had seen men hang before, although the preferred method of execution in his territory was beheading. He remembered how the High-Priest had pointed at the purple-face, twitching body of the traitor on the gallows and whispered something to his own children.

“Why is the witch coming here?” he asked his father.

“I’m making a trade,” said the Butcher.

They sat in silence. Anatole watched the dying fire. His father did not tell him to leave again, maybe he wanted him to see what was about to happen. After all, he was his eldest child and his only son, even though he did not see him that way. The Great Hall was made of stone and grew cold; Anatole pulled his rabbit-fur cloak tighter around his body.

After an hour, one of the Imperials entered the Hall, escorting a woman in her mid-fifties. The Imperial looked nervous and shifty, he stayed a few paces in front of her, sweating in his uniform. The witch did not look nervous at all. Anatole thought that she looked sweet and elegant, nothing like the ugly, dirty witches in the stories he had heard. She had a smooth, heart shaped face, framed by long silvery hair. Long necklaces made of gold and bones hung around her neck and they rattled with each step.

“Count Mikhail Surkhov,” said the witch, without waiting for introductions or niceties. She walked right up to stand in front of the Butcher. “The sword-arm of the King. Have you agreed to what I asked?”

“It would be easy to do. Blagodat is home to less than 800 souls. And half of those are women and children.”

“Even the little ones can tear the guts from a man’s body with only their minds and a bit of blood.” The witch glanced at Anatole briefly. She had almond-shaped eyes as green as poison that seemed to gleam in the firelight. “The King would let you destroy them? Or would that be seen as genocide? He’s allowed the High-Priest into his own home in the past.”

The Butcher scoffed. If he was afraid of this old woman, he did not show it. Usually his gaze would linger on women’s breasts, but now he stared directly into her face. “The King is a stupid old man. I’m the Commander of his army, I’d make him see reason. He has reasons. The rumor goes that those Rift-worshiping pagans cursed his daughter.”

The rumor was that Princess Seraphine had been turned into a monster. All the maids and stable boys were gossipping about it. They said that the High-Priest had mutilated her after the King had begged him to help heal his daughter’s illness. They said that the Princess’s body was bloated and twisted, that she resembled one of the plakal'shchitsa, the crawling, crying mutants that wandered the borders of the Northern Territories in great packs. Anatole knew one thing for certain: that monsters must be killed.

The witch held up her hands in an understanding manner. Each palm had been tattooed with strange circular symbols. She smiled. “I don’t doubt your abilities, Commander,” she said. “I want them all dead. Their dark magic interferes with my own, makes me weak. I am just one old woman. I’ve told you about the High-Priest’s Book. I need it in my possession.”

The Butcher had no use for books. He did not read, he only had use for steel and the strength of his own hands. “You will have this Book. I only want the sword.”

Anatole’s ears pricked up. He loved all the old stories, the legends about magic swords, ones with names. When it came to learning about the lineage of the great families or about fashion, he felt like falling asleep. But swords? Great battles? Noble heroes who sacrificed themselves to save the innocent? That was what he liked best. So his father wanted a sword. Maybe it was a magic sword, if it came from Blagodat.

Bad magic. Blood magic.

The witch shrugged. “I have no use for such a tool. If you destroy everyone in the town and take it, it is yours. I only need the Book.”

“And what do you need that for? A Book of spells?”

The witch only smiled.

Anatole shrank down in his seat as he watched. He didn’t like the idea of slaughtering women and children. He remembered the High-Priest’s son and daughter, he had seen them years ago at the traitor’s execution. Fat, haughty, red-eyed things. The Butcher had no mercy for children. They would die screaming too.

The Butcher ran a hand through his long beard. “The town is surrounded by an iron gate that’s been fortified by their blood magic,” he said. “When Ray Gagnon attacked it 60 years ago, he could not get in. Even if my men take them by surprise, they might wait us out. If I do this for you, it will mean a siege. You’ll have to wait.”

“I’ve waited too long already,” replied the witch. “No. As a symbol of my trust, I’ve provided you with a weapon. Go to your kennels, Commander, you’ll find a boy there with the Ability to tear things apart with his mind. Your interest in people with powers that exist outside of magic is no secret. Use him and the iron gate of Blagodat will crumble.”

There were people who were born with powers in the world. Anatole had seen a few. There had been an old man who could send electricity coursing down his arms, there had been a girl who could read the thoughts of others. The Butcher had the old man torn apart by his hounds. He could still remember the screaming. The girl just went missing one day, but her fate could not have been much better.

It was better not to think about it. Anatole felt a twinge of pity, but it was better that his father focus his cruelty on people who were not him, his mother, and his sisters.

“A boy who can tear things apart with his mind,” mused the Butcher. “A useful tool, but a profane one. No offense to you, witch, but all this unnatural business is an affront to nature. All of you are no better than the crawling plakal'shchitsa mutants. They say that the High-Priest’s sword can cut through magic like a knife through butter and I’ll be glad to have it.”

The witch’s eyes glimmered. If she took offense, she did not show it. She was as sweet and lovely as ever. Her silver hair was like starlight. “A useful tool,” she repeated. “Think what you want. I only want the Book.”

“You will get it. You have my word. Every soul in that town will die at the hands of my men.”

The witch responded by bending in a curtsy. This act of polite submission was somehow chilling. She turned and left.

The Butcher made a fist and pounded it against the table. The sound reverberated against the stone walls. It made Anatole flinch.

As much as his father terrified him, he was still desperate for his approval and love. So he didn’t move. He didn’t leave. He wanted to appear brave. A little nervous, Anatole brushed a few strands of brown curly hair from his face to look more presentable. “What was that?” he asked.

“Witches,” said the Butcher. “Dirty witches. Never get involved with witches. That bitch wants a Book? I’ll get her that Book. She won’t be happy once I get my hands on the sword that can split the universe.” Again, he pounded his fist against the table and stood up. “I’m going to take a look at this boy in the kennels. You go to bed.”

Afterwards, in the silent cold of the Great Hall, Anatole practiced banging his own fist against the table.

###

3 months after the witch came to Kimanka, the Butcher took 400 men and destroyed the blood-magic town of Blagodat. Every man, woman, and child was put to the sword. The maids and the stable-boys whispered about it for weeks, they whispered about how Mikhail Surkhov brought down the iron gates and destroyed the black pyramid.

Anatole didn’t know anything about that. All he knew was that his father returned with the high-priest’s star-metal sword. The metal was black and shining. It was as long as one of the great-swords that the Imperial Army carried, but light enough to be swung one-handed. He watched his father sparring with his men and recognized deep feelings of envy.

He heard all about the boy in the kennels, the one his father called Dog. The Butcher laughed about that. He talked about all the ways a person can be made into an animal. Anatole never visited the kennels. He didn’t want to find out what was inside.

The witch came back soon after that.

“Where is the Book?” she asked the Butcher. The witch looked different. Her face was no longer sweet and gentle. Her eyes were as green as a snake’s. This time, the Great Hall was not empty. Dozens of men stood watching the witch with their hands on their swords and firearms. Anatole was there too, with his mother and sisters. He kept his arms around the littlest one to keep her safe.

The Butcher watched the old woman lazily. “It wasn’t there. I couldn’t find it.”

“Someone took it then. You let someone live.”

His anger flared. “Nobody survived. The men died first. We had our fun, then put the women and children to death as well. Everything burned to the ground, and the crawling wailers came afterwards to feast on the corpses..There was no Book. There was nothing.”

Anatole’s mother stared at her feet. All the light had drained out of her face years ago. She was nothing more than a dead woman walking around. Hearing the Butcher talk about the things he did during war no longer bothered her.

The witch smiled. Her red mouth was too large for her jaw. It seemed like it could unhinge. It seemed like it could swallow all of them up. “Nothing?” she said. “Someone took it. You have no idea what you’ve lost. You have no idea what was inside of it.”

The Butcher waved his hand at her. “Get this creature out of my sight,” he said.

Some of the Imperials approached her with their weapons drawn. A crack rang out and the witch’s face seemed to ripple. She shook her head. The men were unable to reach her, some infernal, invisible force prevented them from doing so. “Stupid,” she said. Her voice was thick and oily. “So stupid. Fine, Mikhail Romanovich. I’ll leave your stinking, cursed Territory. In three years you’ll be dead. And I’ll be back. Your people will suffer and bleed for your failure. Keep the sword and keep the boy. You’ll be needing them.”

It was a threat heard by everyone. It could not be permitted. The Butcher nodded to one of his Captains. “Petya. Shoot her.”

The man aimed his gun. Stasya flicked three fingers at him like she was swatting a fly.

Then the side of his head caved in like a ripe pumpkin. Brain matter splattered onto the floor and the man crumpled, his body twitching. It took more than 30 seconds to die and he died by pieces, painfully. All the witch had to do was look and point to release her terrible magic. One of Anatole’s sisters screamed.

The witch left.

It was the last anyone from Kimanka saw of her for a long time.

####

Everyone has a breaking point. There is only so much that a person can take. When Anatole turned 18, he decided that he was tired of the way his life had turned out. He realized that he knew someone who was even more tired. And he had let Dog out of the kennels. And his father had died.

Staying in their homeland was a death sentence. They left for the Strath to join Florence Gauthier and her Partisans.

Anatole took the Butcher’s star-metal sword.

He never forgot about the witch.

INTERLUDE: A STORY THE HIGH PRIEST TOLD HIS CHILDREN

A thousand years ago, God opened a door so that he could communicate with humanity from His place beyond the Rift. The world back then was very evil and the people had no sense of right or wrong. God came into the world to change that and to help them.

Now, God has no Form, but is the Form of all things. Removed from time, from space, surpassing all things, and existing in all things as a kind of foundation underneath. The holy Book which is kept in the hematite edifice, is where God lives on earth, transubstantiated.

In opening the door, He had ripped countless numbers of weak, mewling creatures made of slime from where they belonged and trapped them on a foreign planet. Their purpose where they had come from was to be prey for the hungry Beasts of the Void. Now? They were disgusting and pitiful and the faithful utilized their ichor to better communicate with God and share his power. The faithful became very powerful. They spread the word of God.

But there were some who were jealous of the faithful’s power. These were the witches. Their own magic was weak and twisted: instead of coming from God, it came from inside themselves. This self-serving magic perverts the will of God. The faithful made a covenant with Him to rid the earth of these witches. For the wrath of God is revealed from beyond the Void against all evil and unrighteousness of these witches, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth.

It is the will of God that all witches be wiped from the earth.

JULES AND MARTY

Julia LaBelle was more excited for the baby to come than its own mother was. She had always loved babies. When she was a little girl, she’d carried a doll around with her everywhere and pretended to be its mother. Now she was 13, and the idea that there was going to be a baby in the house soon made her so excited that she could hardly sleep.

“What are you going to name it?” she asked Ivy one rainy morning. It always rained in the Hinterlands forests. The earth was spongy and the sky was always gray. Jules didn’t know anything different, but Ivy had lived in the Strath before Stasya took her in, and she said that the land there was green and gentle. “What about Daisy?”

“I don’t care,” said Ivy. She stared dully out of the window. She was plump, with big black eyes and a soft round face and could look pretty even when she was doing nothing. “Sure.”

Jules busied herself tidying up the small cottage. There was always so much to do. She had only lived there for a year, but she wanted Stasya to know that she was grateful. Not only for sheltering her, but for teaching her magic. Jules cooked and cleaned, she always kept her hair brushed and braided, and she never talked back. She was good and she worked hard. Someday Stasya would appreciate her for that.

On the other hand, Ivy was sullen and ungrateful. If their places were reversed, Jules certainly wouldn’t lay around all day staring at nothing. Maybe Jules was jealous. Stasya had told her that she was too young to carry the child, but she had always suspected that it was because Ivy was prettier than she was and Martin Bonneville had just liked her better.

Jules’s surname was a cruelty. LaBelle. The beauty. She was no beauty. She was scrawny as a rail, her hair was thin and limp. Her severe overbite gave her a permanently dull look.The illness that had taken her parents' lives had left her face scarred with crater-like pockmarks. No man would ever look at her twice.

Stasya had traveled to Kimanka a month ago. Something about a Book. Since she was away, Bonneville checked in on them now and then. The Hinterlands were a dangerous place for two teenage girls, regardless of their magic.

“Rose is a good name too,” said Jules. She grabbed the kettle and set it on a metal shelf over the fire to heat up. The cottage was small. It was too small for 3 people, and would certainly be too small for 4. Sometimes the thatched roof leaked. They did not have electricity, they could not watch television for the news. But it was their home. “What do you think?”

“I think,” said Ivy, putting her hands on her swollen belly. “I don’t even want this baby.”

“Don’t say that. You heard Stasya. It’s going to be a special baby, It’s going to be half-witch and attuned to the Other Place. It might even be able to go to the Other Place. There aren’t many of us left, don’t you want there to be more witches in the world? Stasya’s working hard on making it safe for us out there.”

“She’s lying. She doesn’t care about us at all.”

Jules felt a flash of irritation.She didn’t understand how someone could be so selfish. When the baby came in a couple months, everything would change and be better.

The one-eared old tabby-cat, Ames, wound herself through Jules’s legs. She was a fierce mouser, without her efforts the cottage would be overrun by vermin. Jules bent and picked her up to pet her as she waited for the tea to boil. The cat nuzzled against her face.

Rain came down hard against the window. When the kettle began to whistle, Jules poured water into two cups over raspberry leaves. That kind of tea was safe for expecting mothers. She drank her own tea slowly and read over a book about the magical properties of different crystals. Agate for strength and courage. Rose quartz for love.

The cottage door blew open and Martin Bonneville stomped in, followed by a torrent of rain. He was a stocky fur-trader of 20, tanned, with dark curly hair and a mischievous countenance. It was said that he could hear voices from the Other Place. Once Jules had asked him what he heard. Bonneville had only shaken his head and told her that he didn’t understand the voices, but that throughout it all there was a low, oscillating drone. The voices chattered to him all night long.

Jules didn’t understand the Other Place. Stasya said that it was a Void beyond the Rift and that their powers came from it. A Void populated by monsters. The blood-magic users of Blagodat worshiped a creature they said came from there. She felt like hearing it all the time might have driven Bonneville a little crazy. He was harmless and nice enough, but something was just…off.

It was called being a psychic. As far as Jules knew, there weren’t many of them in the Hinterlands forests, and even fewer were attuned to the Void. This was all a part of Stasya’s plan to make the world a better place for witches: she had to strengthen their bloodlines. In a few years, she would find a man for Jules too, either one with witchblood or one who was psychic.

“Girls,” said Bonneville. He shook water from his hair. “It’s really coming down out there. I'm soaked.”

“You want a cup of tea?” asked Jules.

“That’d be nice.” He set a brace of ermine down on the table. Their white pelts went for good money in Ile de Matane, where the Imperial Army used them for trim on their winter uniforms. He stepped up to Ivy and put a hand on her belly. “You hear the news?”

“What news?”

“The Butcher of Kimanka went and killed all the blood-magic bastards in Blagodat. Imperials burned the entire town to the ground. You two must feel a bit safer, eh?”

Jules made the sign against evil. That was what she got for just thinking about them. Blood-magic users were their old enemies. 70 years ago they had been witch-hunters. It was good they were dead. They were worse than animals. People said that they spilled the blood of children for their dark magic. She busied herself with the tea again.

They had something Stasya wanted. The magic Book. Other than the baby, it was all she could talk about any more. She said that there was great evil in the magic Book.

“I’m thinking about joining the Imperials,” said Bonneville. He gave one of Ivy’s breasts a little squeeze and she yelped. “Better than yanking weasels out of traps. They always need more men. Plenty of work these days, what with that mouthy cunt from the Strath who leads the Partisans. Those fuckers need weeding out.”

Jules handed him a cup of tea. He nodded appreciatively. As he drank it, his expression took on a far-off quality, as if he was zoning out. Probably listening to the chattering voices of the Other Place.

Bonneville’s hands were big and rough, scarred from the teeth of the animals he pulled from his traps. Two of his knuckles were split.

“Will you go kill one of the chickens?” asked Jules. “I can fry it up and we can all have supper.”

“Sure.” He stood and gave Ivy’s belly one last little pat. “Gotta keep this wee bugger fed so he can be strong like his papa when he comes into this world.”

He left to go back out into the pouring rain.

Jules sniffed. She gathered up the dishes and dumped them into the wash basin.

For once, Ivy got up to help her. She washed her hands and patted them dry on the front of her dress. Her big black eyes were glazed and dead. “If it’s a boy,” she said, “I think I’ll name it Martin.”

###

When Stasya finally returned from Kimanka, she was in a deep rage. She slit Martin Bonneville’s throat like a hog’s and collected his blood in a white basin. She did not say why. She did not say anything to Jules, other than that everything that could have gone wrong, had gone wrong. The town of Blagodat had been destroyed, and the mysterious Book alone with it.

The baby came soon after that.

Jules was only 13. But by then she had learned to harden her heart. The Hinterlands forests were not a kind place to live.

###

Jules woke with a jolt to the sound of truck engines and men’s voices. The sound filled her with terror in an instant. The cottage was 5 miles from any road. Nobody was supposed to be there! Not in the middle of the night, not ever.

She did not know what was happening, only that it was wrong, that it was very wrong. Nobody visited the witch’s cottage in the Hinterlands. Jules scrambled from her bed and pulled her robe around herself. It was a warm night and she hadn’t been wearing anything but a slip. “Oh no.”

Outside were 8 men and 2 trucks. The men wore the green camouflage uniforms of the Partisans. The paint they wore on their faces was smeared and distorted. She could see the silver light of the full moon reflecting off their smiling teeth. Each of them was armed.

They had come to kill them. It was the only conclusion.

Jules raced from her cramped attic bedroom and down the stairs to where Ivy and Marty slept. She almost tripped in her haste. They were already awake. Ivy sat frozen on her bed. Marty stood by the window, clutching Ames the old tabby cat. Both of them looked bloodless and terrified.

“Cellar,” said Jules. She yanked Ivy out of bed, then grabbed Marty by one arm. The little boy whined. He was only six. He hadn’t even started talking, there was something wrong with him. “You two hide in the cellar. Don’t come out, don’t make a sound until you know they’ve gone.”

Ivy started to cry. Her whole body trembled. “What do they want?!”

There was no answer for that. The Partisans were like animals. Their numbers were less than a 3rd of the Imperial Army, but they made up for it with their startling brutality and focused on non-military targets to destroy the supply chain and sow terror. They burned down fields and slaughtered livestock. There was no controlling them.

The cellar was in the kitchen. Jules pulled up the door and shoved Ivy and Marty down into it. The cat yowled and ran away. Marty’s eyes were huge and scared and all she could do was pray that his fear did not trigger a seizure. “Hide,” she said. “Don’t even think about moving.”

“Come on out, little witches,” called a man from outside of the cottage. He spoke in French, but his voice had the musical, slightly nasal accent of the Strath. “Don’t make us burn it down with you inside.”

Jules bit down on her tongue to keep herself present, to keep herself from freezing in terror. She didn’t even know what she was doing, all that she knew was that she had to keep Marty safe. She would die before she let him get hurt. He was just a child, she couldn’t let him get hurt. Maybe if Stasya was there, things would be different, but she wasn’t and it was all up to Jules. She was 19, a fully grown woman, and she had responsibilities.

What could she do against 8 soldiers with guns? She didn’t have any weapons to protect herself. Her magic was for healing, not for defending herself. They would kill her or worse.

She looked at Marty one last time. He clung onto his mother like a baby possum. Most of the time he screamed when anyone touched him, so Jules didn’t want to think about how scared he was. “I’ll be back,” she lied, then closed the cellar door and quickly kicked a rug over it.

Jules opened the front door to stand out on the stoop. She crossed her arms in front of her and tried to keep her face composed and a little fierce. She knew that she was hardly a threat. Some of the Partisans laughed when they saw her. They were all boys her own age– after Rowan Gauthier’s rebellion 9 years ago, the King executed every man involved. She hated them and their trucks and their guns.

“You’re all far from the Strath,” she said. “This is Imperial land.”

That got another laugh. “Where are the other witches, girl?” asked the one who seemed to be in charge, a sandy-haired young man with a face like a knife. He kept one hand on the pistol at his side.

“I’m the only one here.”

“Oh, Miss Julia LaBelle, we know that’s not true,” said another one of them. He was young, dark and handsome in a lanky way, and leaned heavily on a cane with an ornamental head carved like the skull of a fox. Unlike the rest of them, he wore plain black trousers and a matching coat. Maybe not the leader, but close to it. He had a self-satisfied look about him.“The villagers down the road say that you live here with a girl named Ivy Violet and her child. And the old woman. Why don’t they come out here to talk?”

“This is Imperial land,” Jules said again. She drew herself up. She was no loyalist, but she had followed the King her whole life. “Go home.”

A few of them made comments in English, a language she did not speak. The one who was in charge shook his head. “I like it better this way,” he said. “Fine. Ridgeway, grab her. Lambert, go inside and drag out the other ones. Find the old woman.”

One of the soldiers approached her. He was twice her size and had a gun. Jules tried to shove him away from her but he just grabbed her arm. Another shoved past and went inside. The man’s grip on her arm was tight. She twisted and slapped at him and her robe came open, revealing her bare legs. Some of the Partisans laughed.

“Kimble, maybe you’d like to remind your men that Lady Gauthier will have them all flogged if they behave indecently towards this girl,” said the young man with the cane.

“Don’t tell me what to do, you gimpy faggot,” snapped the leader, Kimble. “Relax, nobody is interested in this scrawny pox-faced witch.” He snapped his fingers and some of the men began to pour gasoline around the cottage.

Now Jules was past scared. It was useless to fight, but that didn’t stop her. She didn’t care about herself, she couldn’t let Marty get hurt. If only Stasya had thought she was ready to learn defensive magic, maybe she could do something! But Stasya had never believed in her. Stasya never showed her the old spells, Stasya never explained their components, and because of that, something really bad was going to happen! Again, she slapped and shoved at the man restraining her, she kicked him with her bare feet.He yanked on her hair.

The other one came back, shoving Ivy through the door and dragging Marty by the scruff of his pajamas. The little boy struggled and squealed, his face was turning red. Ivy just fell down to her knees crying stupidly. “Old woman’s not in there, Flick,” said the man.

“Well she has to be somewhere,” replied the one with the cane, Flick. He smiled tightly. “Did you even look?”

“Nothing’s in there but herbs and a mangy cat.”

“Lady Gauthier is not going to be happy,” said Flick. He looked at Marty. “We want her to be happy. Where’s the old woman, girls?”

Jules wanted to scream. She wanted to hurt them. The men continued to pour gasoline around the cottage. “My teacher will hurt you!” she said. She twisted uselessly. “When she sees what you’ve done, she’ll make you wish that you’d never been born! She’ll melt the flesh from your bones, she’ll make you rot! Let us go! Get your hands off him!”

“Fine. Where’s the old woman?”

“I know ways of making people talk,” said Kimble. He pulled a book of matches out of a pocket and used one to light a cigarette. “Me and the lads worked on that Imperial spy last summer.”

Flick coughed and waved smoke out of his face. “That isn’t necessary.”

Marty suddenly stopped wailing. His eyes unfocused and his body stiffened, then went completely limp. He would have fallen over completely had it not been for the soldier’s grip on his shirt. Violent spasms made his arms and legs jerk uncontrollably.

An epileptic fit was the worst thing that could happen at a time like this. They came out of nowhere, but could be triggered by stress. Most of them were small. The last bad one he had came after Ivy got into one of her moods and screamed at him for breaking a plate. Jules made a fist and drove it into the arm of the man restraining her to no effect. “He’s having a seizure, let go of me! Let go of me!”

“Quit fighting me, bitch,” said the soldier holding her. He gave her a hard shake.

Jules lashed out and clawed his face with her long nails, leaving deep gouges. The man screamed and clutched his bloody cheeks. Jules lurched away from him and towards Marty, whose eyes were rolling back in his head and had urinated on himself. Her only thought was to get to him. He had to be so scared.

The man holding Marty must have been surprised, either by her sudden lunge or by the convulsing child, because he did not react immediately. Jules shoved his hand from Marty’s shirt and gently got him onto the ground. There were no rocks or glass that he could hit his head on. The little boy’s arms and legs continued to jerk and his mouth hung open in a silent rictus.

“It’s OK,” said Jules. There was only Marty. She wanted to hold him. “It’s OK, it’s OK.”

“Ridgeway!” Kimble snapped. “Will you do something about that?! We don’t have all goddamn night to waste on this!”

Someone must have hit her. Maybe with the butt of a gun, Jules had no way of knowing. She felt a sharp pain on the back of her head and then the world went dark.

The warm summer air soon filled with the smell of smoke.

####

THE COUNCIL OF MINISTERS DISCUSSES OLIVE

Beatrice Kosarin, Florence’s Minister of Propaganda, called a meeting of the Council of Ministers one autumn afternoon. All of them attended. Reed Kimble, the Partisan Commander. Anatole Surkhov, Field Marshal of the First Army. Prime Minister Florence Gauthier herself, of course.

And Flick. He had no fancy name or title. But he was invited to attend each meeting. He sat down in the chair next to Kimble because somehow that felt safer than sitting next to the others, at least they were countrymen. And he certainly did not want to sit next to his mother. She hadn’t even shown up yet. She was always late. Maybe that was for a good reason: after all, she did have a war to oversee and was the de facto ruler of the Strath and Kimanka. The Hinterlands and Ile de Matane would soon follow.

Beatrice eyed Anatole. She was a big woman with the kind of cut-throat intelligence that Florence favored. She looked exactly like her twin brother did, with her huge doe eyes and weak chin. Of course she looked like him, but she had the privilege of growing up on the streets instead of in a cage. Over the last few years she had released countless press-conferences that had slowly turned the will of the common people to Florence’s favor. “I’ve noticed that my brother has been spending more and more time with that awful little witch,” she said. “You know anything about that? He belongs to you, you should be keeping a closer eye on him..”

“I don’t control what Dog does in his free time,” said Anatole dourly. The war had left his eyes dead and hollow. All those men dying in the mud. He never went anywhere without his heavy body-armor. It had to be exhausting to live that way. “He’s fond of her and Marty. It’s good for him.”

“I worry that she’s bewitched him.”

Reed Kimble laughed. He was Florence’s right hand, but the unrelenting cruelty of his burnt-earth approach to warfare was concerning. “That witch girl must like big cocks,” he said in his rough voice. 3 months ago a Loyalist peasant had tried to slash him across the throat and it was only just healing. “Can you imagine them fucking? It would be like a bear trying to hump a rabbit.”

“Don’t speak that way when there’s a lady present, mon cher,” Flick said pleasantly. “Have some civility.” He did not want to get into it that afternoon. His pain radiated dully up his right leg, all the way to the hip. Some days were better than others, but it never went away completely. He would never be quite free. Taking morphine helped, but he tried to avoid that since it affected his lungs and made his asthma worse.

But Beatrice never took offense to that kind of vulgar talk. She had heard worse growing up on the streets, and even worse than that among Florence’s armies. The men treated her like one of the lads. She could relate to almost anyone and used her words to blend in, chameleon-like. There was a reason that Florence had appointed her Minister of Propaganda. “Maybe Jules hasn’t bewitched Ivan. She doesn’t seem very good at what she does. Marty is what? Six years old and he doesn’t talk. Have you heard him squealing and grunting like he’s some kind of wild animal? Poor little thing..”

“That’s probably why Dog likes him,” said Kimble. “They can communicate through yap-yap-yapping.”

Flick kept smiling but he felt a twinge of protective irritation. He saw a bit of himself in the half-feral witch boy. Both of them had been born with disabilities to mothers who didn’t want them. It was easy for him to remember being six years old and the frustration of being different. “Marty’s just slow. His fits can’t help.”

“In Kimanka we leave crippled and abnormal babies in the swamp.” Anatole’s face was contemplative. “It’s more merciful than letting them live.”

Beatrice laughed. “Your people are all sadistic barbarians. In Ile de Matane, we send the interesting ones to the freak shows. When I was 15 I saw a girl there with nubby flippers for arms and legs.” She nodded at Flick. “Maybe you have a back-up career for if this war doesn’t work out.”

It was pointless to say anything to defend himself, and why should he? Flick knew that his body was of no use to his mother’s cause. He had accepted that a long time ago. He lived in a world where there was no space for him, but the whole point of the Revolution was to make a space. Florence wanted to make their land a better place for people who were different.

It still hurt a little. He was only 19 and had never had friends.

Flick tried to meet Anatole’s chilly gaze. Out of all of them, he at least should understand what it was like to be different. But Anatole hid it better than he ever could. All he got was a disdainful little sneer from the arrogant pup.

He hated all of them.

No. They all hated each other. Their differences and motivations were all too great. The only thing holding them together was their near-fanatical loyalty towards Florence.

Speak of the devil. Florence slammed into the council room. Even though she was in her late 30’s, she had the unstoppable energy of a teenager. Everything she did was passionate. She had a fire inside of her heart that could not be dimmed. Sometimes Flick hated her, but he would never stop following her. You cannot stop following a person like that. It occurred to him that he would probably die for her if she asked him to.

“Friends,” said Florence, half breathlessly. She had worked herself up into a frenzy for this. Her black eyes shone and there was a flush to her dark brown skin. The dress she had chosen for the day was made of red velvet, with fur trim. “This is a big one. I’ve received intelligence that a survivor of the blood-magic cult of Blagodat is living in Ile de Matane and serves the King.”

‘Received intelligence’. That was a nice way of putting it, after all the work Flick did to get her that intelligence. He could have died. All she cared about was her information.

“Why do we care?” asked Beatrice Kosarin, ever the skeptic. She rested her chin in one big hand.

Florence smiled at her. It was more like she was baring her teeth. “I care,” she said. “That’s all you need to know.”

“Not exactly motivating, Prime Minister.”

“My father killed every man, woman, and child among the bloody-eyes six years ago,” Anatole’s tone was stiff and haughty. “There were no survivors.”

“Maybe the Butcher missed a few,” said Kimble, reclining in his chair. “Or took a few home for his dogs. They say the High-Priest’s son’s body was never accounted for afterwards.”

“Partisan rumors and lies.” Anatole’s face was getting red. He had never been able to hide his emotions. That was a little trick Flick had learned from his mother.

“Will you people stop arguing?” snapped Florence. She took a cigarette out of a silver case and lit it. “Flick, tell them what you told me, boy.”

They all looked at him. Flick cleared his throat. He knew he should stand up to keep their attention, but with the pain it wasn’t worth it. “One of the King’s concubines is a girl named Olive Vernier. Rumor has it that she’s risen through the court quite quickly and has become one of his favorites. She sits at his right hand and has become pregnant with his child.” He used two fingers to smooth down his mustache, a nervous habit. “I’ve heard that this girl has red eyes and the power to bewitch the minds of men.”

“And how did you hear that?” asked Beatrice.

Flick looked at his mother. She shrugged, exhaling smoke. Throwing him under the bus. “I was in the Capitol last week and had a dalliance with one of the palace guards. Considering the delicate position he was in, I don’t think he had any reason to lie to me.”

Over the years, Flick had found that one of the best ways to get information was to act as a honeypot. He seduced people and got them to tell him their secrets. An easy way to spy. It worked best with men, since he could use blackmail afterwards to ensure their silence or service. It didn’t bother him. He liked sleeping with men and women. It was taboo to do so in the North, but it made his job easier. All he was really good for was getting information.

Reed Kimble’s mouth twisted and Beatrice grimaced after this blunt explanation of his own deviance. They wouldn’t dare say anything though. Not in front of Florence. Anatole, on the other hand, was not a thinker. “You pimped yourself out to some Imperial for useless information?” he asked with disgust. “You let this man do things to you? Are you sick? What’s wrong with you?”

Flick gripped the handle of his cane but his smile was light and easy. “Don’t test me, Tolya, you won’t like what I might say about what’s wrong with you.”

The flush was spreading down Anatole’s neck. The overly-intimate diminutive made it worse, Dog was the only one he allowed to call him that. It was so easy to provoke him. For someone who clung to stupid ideas like integrity and courage, he had a terrible temper. His hand twitched towards the sword at his side. “The only reason I haven’t challenged you to single combat is because beating a cripple into the floor would bring me no honor.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I’m a cripple, then.”

“I told you once to stop bickering like little boys,” said Florence. She flipped through some papers on the table. “I won’t tell you a second time. Flick, shut your big mouth for once. Field Marshal– I don’t know what to do with you, you need to calm down. The only thing you people need to know is that I need this blood magic girl here. I need to speak to her. I need to know what happened that night, I need to know about the witch’s Book. Go get her for me.”

It was no use fighting her on this. Once she made up her mind, that was that, she would never let go. Florence was prone to bouts of manic passion, but beneath it all was a dogged focus.

“You seem to be collecting magic users, Prime Minister,” said Beatrice. Glancing at Anatole, she shrugged. “I want it on the record that I think it’s unwise. We’re already babysitting two untrained, half-feral witches. We all heard what happened to the Butcher of Kimanka when he failed to control his pets.”

Florence’s face was wreathed in smoke. Her black eyes glittered. “I am not the Butcher,” she said. “And there’s only one magic user I’m interested in: the Hinterlands witch.”

#writing

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im-totally-not-an-alien · 3 years

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Final Fantasy 7 prompts #75 (FINAL LIST)

1. Iflana does not trust Cloud, not one bit. She can sense the calamity inside him and wants him to leave. Too bad both her husband and daughter seem enraptured by his very existence. Her husband rambling on about his mutated and 'safer' J-cells, as if that thing could ever be considered safe. Then it was her daughter, who seemed to take him in, as though he was no more than an injured bird needing treatment.

This thing would be the death of them. She just knew it.

2. "In my world its pretty rare for monsters to talk."

The large gray rabbit riding on his head paused to consider this, "Maybe they're just stupid?"

"Duh. They're basically wild animals. They're not really like you Loppy."

"Lopmon." The bunny creature corrected. Again.

Aka Cloud wakes up in the digital world as a twelve year old and has to find his friends...with the help of his partner digimon of course.

3. Genesis used to think mermaids were one of the most beautiful creatures in Ancient lore...until he saw a blond one swallow a fish whole. He wasn't so sure after that.

4. Au where Cloud and the remnants are escaped expiraments from a non-Shinra lab. They travel to Midgar and become mercenaries.

One of them winds up being captured, prompting the other three to rescue them, but they're otherwise preoccupied by normal human things they never got to experience. Loz loves donuts and other sweets, Yazoo adores taking long hot bathes, and Kadaj always seems to have headphones on, etc.

The holy trinity are shocked when the four don't recognize Sephiroth. Genesis also nearly has a heart attack when he catches them roasting a doomrat over an open flame. "You're not actually going to eat that, are you?"

5. Hojos alarm was triggered at three in the morning. Usually this wouldn't be an issue, creatures attempted to escape Shinras (and by extention his) clutches on a regular basis. They were usually recaptured or destroyed within the hour.

What was strange was the fact that this was Jenovas alarm. His goddess tended to not move much beyond bobbing up and down in her tank.

Upon checking the security feed, he witnessed something infuriating. A blond man was holding an armful of wildflowers and bossing around three silver haired teens as they dismantled her shrine and stole her away. Jenova herself seemed...interested? Approving? He wasn't sure, but it looked like she was cooing at them. Further analysis was required.

6. Time travel au, but the whole thing is from Hojos perspective and he suffers

7. Cloud and Reeve were having a discussion about Clouds Jenova abilities and why he never used them, which eventually lead Cloud to picking up a pebble and stating, "Its not like a can just force some of my life energy into a rock and make it a planet"

And then he did. Tfw

8. High fantasy, no materia au.

Magic is rarely seen in humans, rather a tool used by monsters. On the day Clouds mother is murdered his abilities awaken, creating a powerful snowstorm that ripped the town of Nebilhiem apart.

Ten years later and the storm rages on, having grown to cover nearly the entirety of the mountain, rendering communication with nearby kingdoms difficult and travel impossible.

The famed General Rhapsodous is sent to slay whatever great beast is causing this catastrophe. When he is faced with a young man living up there in complete isolation, he chooses to stay with the mysterious man until he can locate the monster.

What will become of Cloud once Genesis discovers the truth? After all, a witch is considered a form of monster.

9. "I should have just remained a puppet!"

Genesis mulled over the words as though they alone could unravel the mystery that is Strife.

Some part of the redhead felt a little bad about using the strange man's emotional outburst against him, but things were getting desperate...

10. Time traveler au where Genesis dresses in drag to save this "Tifa" girl from the Don. He then tries to get her to go to Shinra for questioning and is punched for his efforts

11. Cloud is thrown into a world where he never existed and Shinra still reigns supreme. Worse, he has no memory of who he is or how he got there (cause Jenova destroyed them). He only has his bike and his sword and begins traveling to find a purpose, all while avoiding Shinras detection.

He often stops at inns and rest stops and often sees the same group of people. The large man with a gun arm grew suspicious from seeing him everywhere they went.

___________________________

"Go away."

The knocking came again. "I know you're in there blondie." A gruff voice replied.

"I'm not gay."

The man on the other side of the door began sputtering. "Look," another voice began, "We just need to talk."

"Yeah. Sure. Talk." He said flatly. "In the middle of the night." He went over to the door anyway. Opening it revealed the man with a gun arm and another man with wild black hair.

"Zack?" The blond blurted, startled. What was one of Shinras Supreme doing out here?!

"You remember me!" The man beamed, "SOLDIER First Class Zack Fair, at your service! Now the real question!"

The man leaned down a bit to the mysterious blonds level, "Who are you?"

12. "Can you do it?" The softness of Denzels voice seemed to make the situation all the more horrifying. "Can you kill me?" Eerie mako green eyes stared up at where Cloud stood frozen.

Denzel pulled a knife from the block, "Or will your son kill you?"

Aka Seph plays mind games by possessing the kids from Advent Children and using them to torment Cloud and make him look like a lunatic

13. Cloud gets sent back in time/ alternate reality, ect. but gets turned into a white materia. He's careful not to roll around while people are looking, but that doesn't stop people from saying, "Hey, look! A materia! " and picking him up. He has no real power...other than apparently soothing anyone/anything he comes into contact with.

Strangely, he keeps getting slotted into bracers (among other things) regularly. Ya'll, he's so annoyed.

14. There were two of him. Two Sephiroths. The blond began regulating his breathing, desperately trying to ward off an ensuing panic attack. He wouldn't stand a chance if they decided to work together.

Luckily, one insulted the other and thus a catfight of epic proportions began, all while Cloud had a panic attack in some long forgotten closet.

15. Au where child Sephiroth overhears a scientist talking about her 'prayers being answered' and he asks her what that meant. After a brief explanation, he later prays to anyone who can hear him to get him out of the labs and/or away from Hojo.

It works.

Bonus: Cloud and Sephiroth were fighting again in the Midgar desert when Sephiroth slashed the air, creating a portal. He had intended to use it to appear behind his puppet and impale him again, but the blond rushed forward and slashed through the portal with his own sword, expecting the portal to disappear as he sailed through were it once was.

Unfortunately, it was still very much there. Just...different. Cloud wasn't given the chance to properly examine it before the feeling of being plunged into ice water overwhelmed him and he was spat out on the other side.

It was another desert, but not like the one he left. He could feel no life here. No plants, no animals, no...no lifestream. The only thing around is another version of him. One that was used and abandoned by the Sephiroth of this world.

The other blond stared at him in confusion, wielding twin sabers in a defensive position.

#ff7 #sephiroth #ffvii #final fantasy vii #final fantasy 7 #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #ff7 story prompts #tumblr prompt

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kelyon · 3 years

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Golden Rings 23: A Hat

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Jefferson tries to get help

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Inside a cramped little cottage in a cramped little town in the mountains of a flat planet that flies through space on the back of four elephants on top of a turtle, he is having dinner with his family.

Technically, they are Leo’s family, but technicalities have never troubled him. These people have welcomed him into their lives. This smoke-filled, boisterous cottage is more home to him than the solemn rock quarry where Jefferson spent the first few miserable decades of his life.

The meal is mostly over, but everyone lingers over pudding and conversation and beer. A few of his sisters-in-law have gathered up the dishes and are headed back to the kitchen for the washing up.

His daughter sits on his lap. She is almost too big for the gesture and maybe that’s why she wants it so much. It’s certainly why he lets her do it. How much longer will he have with his little girl? Even if they have escaped from the Queen’s curse, they cannot escape time. There will only be a few more years before Grace is more a woman than a baby. She’ll be as pretty as her mother, and just as smart, winding her way through the hearts of everyone who meets her.

But for now, his girl sits on his lap and listens to her family. Beside him, Leo squeezes his arm.

She leans into him. “No matter where we go, it’s never better than being home.”

He smiles at her, his wife, his life. Her face is ruddy from drink and smoke. Her blonde hair curls in the heat, teasing wisps escape from her bun. Her plump curves fill out her dress like bursting sausage. She has a shine of bacon grease around her mouth and a touch of beer foam on the tip of her nose. In all the lands in all the worlds, he has never seen anyone more beautiful.

Somewhere down the table, a baby cries. One of his many sisters-in-law is trying to soothe one of Grace’s many cousins, without much success. The infant has been fussing all night, and now the poor thing’s wails have drowned out the riotous conversation.

“‘Ere now!” Leona’s mother calls down from the head of the table. “Are you going to help that poor babby or do I ‘ave to?”

His sister-in-law--a washed out, nervous looking woman whose name no one can remember--looks gratefully up at Nanny Ogg. “Can you?”

Nanny Ogg snorts. This grande dame--which she translates as “big woman”--is the matriarch of the Ogg clan and the second-most powerful witch in the Ramptops Mountains, though she doesn’t try as hard. She’s had five husbands (and married three of them), fifteen children, and more grandchildren and great-grandchildren than anyone in Lancre can count.

The baby is passed from hand to hand down the table, squalling all the way. When it finally gets to the head of the table, it is placed into the very solid arms of a round old woman dressed in black. She has a pipe, a pint, and a black pointy hat. (There’s nothing magic about a pointy hat, except that it says that the person underneath it is a witch.) She also has lively dark eyes--like Leo’s, like Grace’s--and the widest grin most people have ever seen.

The current occupant of the old woman’s lap is a mangy ball of fur and claws named Greebo. Though known to pick fights with bears (and not lose), he’s nothing but an old softy to Nanny Ogg. Still, the cat is smart enough to know that he is always second place to any child. As soon as the baby is in the witch’s arms, he scampers out of the way.

Jefferson’s life would have been hell if Nanny Ogg hadn’t given him her approval to marry Leo. They would have married anyway--Leo wouldn’t have let anything stop them--but coming home like this would have been… difficult. There are a dozen tiny ways an Ogg can tell you they don’t like you--and a hundred large and painful ones. But Nanny Ogg’s welcoming nature--and Jefferson’s endless potential to bring her presents from far-off lands--had ensured that they were welcome any time.

Within a minute of entering Nanny Ogg’s embrace, the screaming baby quiets. Within another minute, it sleeps peacefully, despite the raucous conversation around the table.

Perched on his knees, Grace looks curious. “Was that magic, Gran?”

“Coo-ee, no, my duck!” Nanny Ogg chuckles. “The day I needs magic to calm a babe is the day you lot can put me in the ground!”

“But you did it so fast!” Grace persists.

“Coz I been doing it so long,” Nanny Ogg explains. “Ever since your Uncle Jason was a wee thing! There’s a knack to it, but it ain’t magic.”

Grace ponders this for a moment. Children are allowed to speak freely around Nanny Ogg’s table--provided they keep the conversation interesting. “Papa knows a man who does magic.”

Jefferson thinks about explaining, but clearly this is a private conversation.

Nanny Ogg nods sagely. “I imagine your dad knows all kinds of people, the work he does.”

“He was a funny little man,” Grace says. “He has a funny voice and he’s all green.”

“Takes all sorts, luv. We can’t help the way we’re made.”

“He gave me a yellow dress, to match Mama’s pink one. He pulled it out of the air! We were there for--why were we there, Papa?”

“A wedding,” Jefferson answers. “The Dark One and Belle wanted us to be there for their wedding.”

“It was a lovely day,” Leo smiles at him while stroking their daughter’s hair. “Do you remember dancing in that big ballroom, Grace? Remember how he made the instruments play themselves?”

Nanny Ogg snorts. “Sounds like a show-off, if you ask me.”

“Oh he is,” Jefferson agrees. “I don’t know if you’d like him, and Mistress Weatherwax would hate him.”

“Well, there’s not many I don’t like, and there’s not many Esme Weatherwax don’t hate, at least at first.”

They laugh at that, as they laugh at everything. The conversation moves on to other topics. Later the lot of them move away from the table and into the parlor. Around a fire and more beer, Nanny Ogg brings out her banjo, but the evening still manages to end happily.

He puts Grace to bed in a room with her cousins, a group of girls near her age. He kisses her and makes sure she has her stuffed rabbit. Then he goes up to the bedroom where Leo is waiting.

His wife is a dream, all satiny pink. All soft and warm and round. Like a sunset cloud with grasping arms. Like candy floss with a libido. She is everything. All the happiness he has now is because of her. This family, this life, their daughter. Everything in his past led to her, everything in the present comes from her, everything in the future will be theirs together.

They make love, full of food and clumsy with drink. Their lips are loose and sloppy. They giggle and try to stay quiet in this crowded house. Their hands know their bodies. They know how to pleasure each other. They know. They feel. They love. They delight in each other and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

When Jefferson wakes up, everything is gone.

****

For the ten thousand, three hundred ninetieth time, Jefferson woke up alone. In a giant, empty bed, inside a giant, empty house. He woke up, like he always did, with a gnawing ache in his chest and a burning desire for nothing more than to go back to sleep. Back to his dream. His best dreams were always about them. Leo. Grace. Home.

Sitting up in bed, Jefferson covered his face with his hands and let a dry sob rack through him. Tears would come later. First sob of the morning was always dry.

“Morning” was not the right word. It was a gray spring afternoon, more or less identical to every other gray afternoon he’d woken up in since he was brought over to this world. Over the years--over so many years--he had gotten in the habit of starting his day when most people in Storybrooke began to end theirs. The only reason he woke up at all was to get a chance to see his daughter walk home from school.

The telescope was in the office, what he tended to think of as the hat room. This side of the massive house faced Main Street. He could see quite a lot--the diner, the Sheriff’s Station, a few important houses. And he had learned quite a lot, just by looking at all these people living their lives.

Nothing changed in Storybrooke. Children didn’t get older. The old and sick never died. People worked the same jobs no matter how much they hated them. There was a girl he saw walking to and from the diner who had been nine months pregnant for twenty-eight years. Everyone was miserable, alone and unloved in one way or another, but they all carried on with what they thought were their lives.

Until the day a yellow bug drove into town.

Looking through the telescope, Jefferson trained his eyes on a lime green winter coat. The coat was bouncing over the shoulders of a young girl as she hopped, skipped and jumped her way around the sidewalk. His throat tightened, as it did every time he saw her. In the lens of the telescope, she looked close enough to reach out and touch.

Grace was walking with another girl--Jefferson didn’t know her name. She was poor, from Old Town. Her father was gone and her mother worked long hours for low pay. Girls like that didn’t get their accomplishments written up about in the newspaper the way Grace did every time she won the Science Fair. Until a few months ago, Grace had never spoken to this girl. Both of them had walked the same path from the school to the abandoned library, twenty feet apart, every day for twenty-eight years, without ever interacting with each other.

Until the day Sheriff Swan started a youth outreach campaign, and made a point to talk about how much safer kids were if they used the buddy system when they didn’t have an adult around.

Then Grace had looked up from her routine, and she had seen the other girl looking back. Both of them needed someone to walk with. Both of them were looking for a friend. Both of them found one. It was a little thing, but it was a change.

He watched them walk from the library to the house in New Town where Tim and Mia Lewis lived. The people Grace thought were her parents. Every once in a while, they ran an ad in the Storybrooke Daily Mirror--all three of them with big smiles, the adults offering their services in insurance and real estate.

The lights were off inside the house, so he couldn’t see into the kitchen. He couldn’t see what healthy snacks Mia had made for the girls today. He couldn’t see what game they played to unwind for a bit before Mia made sure they both started their homework. A few hours later, the other girl’s mother would stop by after her shift at Granny’s. He never knew if she thanked Mia for watching her daughter. Maybe it was just understood. Maybe Mia said she was just doing what Sheriff Swan advised, watching out for children who might otherwise get into trouble, being alone and unsupervised.

Once Grace was out of his sight, Jefferson moved the telescope to look around town. Not too many changes today. Archie Hopper was walking his dalmatian. Marco the handyman was making another trip to the hardware store. The stranger on the motorcycle idled outside Marine Automotive; he seemed to be watching Marco. Mrs. Gold was strutting away from the pawn shop with her head held high.

He watched her, this woman who used to be Belle. It looked like she was going towards City Hall. Curious. Was she applying for a permit? Was there some licence she needed to renew? His fingers itched to pick up the phone and call the Dark One about what he had seen. He was the only other human being in town, the only person who knew the truth about anything. It was just the Dark One, Jefferson, and Queen Regina.

But he couldn’t bother him too much. They couldn’t raise any more suspicion than they already had with their one secret meeting in the woods. The Dark One was still trying to maintain his cover as “Mr. Gold.” Besides, what difference could it make that Belle was running an errand to City Hall?

With a sigh, Jefferson moved away from the telescope. He’d been awake for more than an hour, it was time to put on pants.

In no time at all, he had showered, dressed, and chugged down a protein shake. Most days, it was hard for him to summon up the will to cook or eat. He kept his body going with prepackaged meal replacements. They tasted like crap, but at least he didn’t have to think about them. He left cooking for people who thought they had something to live for.

He made his way to the front doors. The house had a wide driveway that ran under a large overhang. Whenever visitors came, they could disembark from the vehicles and go into the house without the hazards of rain or snow.

If he ever had visitors.

At the moment, and for the past twenty-eight years, all he had was the most recent copy of the Storybrooke Daily Mirror. It wasn’t a bastion of hard-hitting journalism, but for a long time it had been the only way he could know anything about the town he spent so much time looking at. The newspaper had given him names to put to the faces--Mayor Mills, Mr. Gold, Sheriff Humbert, and later Sheriff Swan. It had been a lifeline, and he still clung to it. For nearly three decades, the dates on the front page had been the only changes he had seen anywhere in this town.

Today’s date was April 2nd, 2012. The headline was about the continued search for a missing person. Kathryn Nolan, a paralegal working at the firm of Duke & Duke, had been missing for more than a month. There had been sightings of a woman matching her description in various parts of Storybrooke, but by the time the police arrived, all traces of her had gone. Sheriff Swan encouraged anyone with any information regarding Mrs. Nolan’s whereabouts to call the station.

On the next page, there was an editorial decrying the lack of effort put forth by Kathryn’s husband, David Nolan, to aid in the search. Sydney Glass stopped just short of outright accusing Mr. Nolan of gross negligence or foul play. He only noted the amount of time Mr. Nolan spent with the schoolteacher, Miss Blanchard. The article concluded with speculation that perhaps Mrs. Nolan was not missing at all, but had run away from a terminally unhappy home.

After finishing the paper, he put it away in the office closet and went back to the telescope. The lights were on in the house where Grace lived. The other girl had been picked up. Tim Lewis was home from work. The three of them were making dinner together. Mia was stirring a pot of chili and Tim was taking a bag of corn out of the freezer.

“She doesn’t like corn, guys,” Jefferson muttered to himself. “She won’t eat the chili if you put corn in it. You’ve been taking care of her for twenty-eight years and you’ve never figured that out.”

He shook his head and looked away. Sometimes it was maddening to watch the town like this, to see these people make the same mistakes, over and over. Emma Swan had made some changes, but there were still so many ways to be unhappy.

He watched dinner in the Lewis household. He watched Grace carefully pick out all the corn from her bowl of chili and set it into her paper napkin. He watched Mia shake her head at his daughter. He watched Tim lecture her about wasting food. He watched Grace scowl as she picked up the napkin and dumped the offending corn kernels back into the chili. She ate, but she looked like she was going to vomit.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispered. He had to get to her, somehow. He had to let her know that he was her father. He had to get her back to Leo.

After dinner, the family watched TV. Grace sat on a couch between Tim and Mia, and flickering light bathed over all of them. They weren’t bad people, her fake-parents. They did love her, and they did the best they could to raise her to be healthy and successful in this world. Whoever Tim and Mia had been before, they were victims of the curse too. They had never meant to steal another couple’s daughter.

He had to put this right. He had to end this curse. Jefferson didn’t have much power, but he would do anything to put his family back together.

He moved the telescope away from Grace. After a brief search, he found the big pink house in Old Town where the Dark One lived. The lights were on, but no one was visible through the windows. If he called on the phone, the Dark One would tell him to be patient. The Savior would break the curse in due time.

But Jefferson had already waited too long.

Scanning through town, he set his sights on the Sheriff’s station. Storybrooke was peaceful enough that most of the cops could hang up their guns in time for dinner. They were all long gone by now. Even Sheriff Swan was packing up and getting ready to go home for the night.

Perfect.

Picking up the sleek, silver cordless phone, Jefferson punched in the numbers he had seen in the newspaper. Through the telescope, he could see Emma Swan hear the phone ringing. She slumped and grimaced in the way of everyone being clawed back into a job they thought was done for the day. Then she straightened up, and picked up the receiver on her desk.

“Sheriff’s station, this is Emma.”

Jefferson cleared his throat. “Yeah, is this the number to call if somebody saw Kathryn Nolan?”

Perking up, Emma fumbled on her desk for a pen and paper. “It sure is. Who am I talking to?”

That question was too complicated to get into. “Yeah, I don’t know for sure if it was Kathryn Nolan, but it looked like a woman in her mid-thirties, caucasian, looked kinda haggard. I, uh, I tried to talk to her, but she just kept walking through the woods.”

“Which woods are those? Where was this?”

“Oh, yeah, it was the north woods. You ever been up on Angus Drive?”

“Can’t say that I have. Still kind of new to the area.”

“Yeah, well that’s where she was. About ten minutes ago I saw her, she was walking towards town. Like I said, I tried to get her attention, but she didn’t listen. I didn’t wanna try to chase after her. Might scare her, you know. Make things worse.”

“Right, right,” Emma said. “So, north woods, Angus Drive, ten minutes ago. And what was your name?”

Jefferson hung up the phone. Then he got his coat and a scarf. It was time to go for a walk.

****

There were several cars in the massive garage of the house where Jefferson had been a prisoner. For the first twenty-eight years, he hadn’t been able to open the garage door to get them on the road. Even after Emma had rolled in, the cars were still useless. None of them had gasoline.

So Jefferson walked. He had walked along the highway and through the woods and over the town line as far as he could before something terrible happened. He walked into town sometimes, trying to find a way out. When he’d noticed “Mr. Gold” acting strangely, he had walked to the pawn shop.

At this point, he knew the town better than anyone else. Who knows the shape of a cage better than the captive inside? He knew the borders and boundaries, especially the area around the house. He knew where the road made a wicked hairpin turn, where someone who was still kind of new to the area wouldn’t know what was coming and could be caught off guard.

The yellow Volkswagen had better brakes than he thought--Emma stopped short of actually hitting him when he emerged from the woods onto the road in front of her. He’d been willing to take the hit, half-curious to see if the curse would let any injury last longer than a week or so.

Emma’s quick driving stopped him from actually getting hurt, but the collision was close enough that he could fall to the ground in a convincing show. She stopped the car and got out when she saw him.

“Oh my God, are you okay?”

On the gravel shoulder of the highway, Jefferson groaned and clutched his leg.

“Sir? Sir, can you talk? I’m Emma Swan, do I need to call for EMTs?”

“No,” Jefferson gritted his teeth, swallowed the imaginary pain. “No, I live around here. I’ll be fine. Can you just get me back to my house?”

For just a moment, she hesitated. “Uh, sure. Yeah, let’s get you inside, at least.”

She helped him up and into the passenger seat of the bug. Then she began to drive.

“So where do you live, Mr…?”

“Angus Drive.” He answered only the question she had said out loud. “It’s up ahead.”

“Funny.” Now that the moment of panic had passed, Emma seemed less willing to accept half-answers. “I just got a call about that address. A man said he saw a missing person out this way. Maybe you saw her when you were out. A blonde woman in her mid-thirties?”

He shook his head. “That sounds like your description, Sheriff.”

“First, I’m not in my mid-thirties. Second, how did you know I’m the Sheriff?”

“I read the paper. And who else would be getting a call about a missing person? And, you’ve got your badge on your hip.”

She frowned. “Guess that all checks out. Yeah, I’m Sheriff Swan. What’s your name?”

Again, Jefferson didn’t answer. “This is the house on the right.”

“A house?” Emma said as she parked under the awning. “This looks more like a hotel! Do you have a big family or something?”

Jefferson opened the door, but made sure to wait for her to help him out of the car. “No,” he said. “It’s just me.”

“The sign on the mailbox says Dogdson.”

“Sure does.”

Leaning on Emma, Jefferson pretended to hobble up the stairs to get into the front door. The curse had never given him a key to this house, so he always left it unlocked. Someday, when the curse was broken, he would find a way to lock the door behind him and walk away a free man. He would take Grace and walk all the way to the Discworld if he had to.

“Where should I put you?” Emma asked once they were in the foyer.

“Closest living room is over there.”

She set him up on one of the white leather couches with his “bad” leg propped up on the arm. “Want me to take a look at it?”

“No, no, I’ll be fine. Listen, I’m kind of an amateur cartographer. Upstairs, I’ve got maps for all of these woods. They could be useful to you, since you don’t know the area well.”

Hands on her hips, Emma Swan looked down at him. She looked shrewd, suspicious. Kind of like Leo, only skinny. “I never told you I don’t know the area.”

Jefferson grinned. What was the old saying about honesty? Better to tell the truth because then you don’t have to keep track of your lies? “I guess you didn’t.”

“The only person I told that to lately was a man on the phone who also didn’t tell me his name.” Emma sat down on the coffee table in front of the couch so they were on the same level. “Did you actually see Kathryn Nolan around here?”

He didn’t stop grinning. “No.”

“And your leg isn’t hurt at all.”

It wasn’t a question, but he still answered. “No.”

“Can you give me a single good reason why I shouldn’t arrest you on the very serious charge of Wasting the Sheriff’s Time?”

Jefferson sat up. “I do need your help,” he said. “But I thought if I told you what was going on, you would think I was crazy.”

Emma didn’t blink at that. “People who might be crazy need just as much help as people who might be sane. Let’s start from the beginning: Tell me your name.”

“Jefferson,” he answered immediately.

“Jefferson,” she repeated. “Is that a first name or a last name?”

“First.”

“And the last name?”

He didn’t really have one. Few people in the old world did. “Ogg,” he answered.

It was the name he went by on worlds where last names were common. Leo’s name. He was part of a proud tradition of men becoming Mr. Ogg when they married an Ogg woman.

Emma looked him in the eyes, long and hard. “Jefferson Ogg,” she said slowly. “That’s… such a weird name, I don’t think you made it up.”

“I didn’t,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “And what do you need help with, Jefferson Ogg?”

“I…” Gods, how could he even start? He would just have to show her. “It’s upstairs.”

She gave him another look, not speaking. Then she pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and pressed some buttons.

“Texting on the job?”

“I left my walkie-talkie in the car.” She put her phone away. “Just letting my roommate know where I am and to call the dispatch office if she doesn’t hear from me in 10 minutes.”

That was almost funny, that she thought he was dangerous. As if the most dangerous person in Storybrooke wasn’t signing Sheriff Swan’s paychecks.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he said.

****

It was the first time anyone other than him had set foot in the office. He wondered what Emma made of the room. All Jefferson ever cared about was the telescope and the walk-in closet where he stored the newspapers. Neither of those things drew Emma’s focus.

“That’s a lot of top hats,” she said as she stood in front of the lit-up shelf. There were rows of them, all made of an endless supply of black felt. “You part of a show choir or something?”

“No.” He shut the door behind them, locked it. “The hats… are actually what I need your help with.” He pulled out some of the felt, some sewing needles and a pair of scissors. He tossed them all onto the table in front of her. “I need you to make one.”

Now the expression on Emma’s face was what ‘suspicious’ wanted to be when it grew up. “You think I’m a hatter?”

He stood behind her, nudging her into a chair in front of the raw materials. “I think you can do extraordinary things, Emma. I think you can do exactly what I need you to. I think you can save me.”

Her expression morphed from disbelief to exhaustion. “No, not you too. Have you been talking to Henry? What is it with this town and people thinking I can save them?”

“Because you can!” He put his hands on either side of the chair and pushed her to the table. Then he leaned over her to keep her from getting up. “You are a special person, Emma. You made the changes start, you can make everything good again.”

“Bring back the happy endings, is that what you want from me?”

She was angry. She meant the remark to be flippant. But she was so right it brought tears to his eyes.

“Yes,” Jefferson whispered. “Yes, that’s all I want. The Dark One says it’s your destiny, that you have already brought--”

“Wait, who?”

“The Dark One,” he said. “Rumpelstiltskin, he--”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Emma pushed herself up away from the table and stood up to confront him. “Do you think you’ve had a conversation with Rumpelstiltskin? What, do you think Regina is the Evil Queen too?”

“Yes!” he shouted. He picked the felt up off the table and shook the fabric in her face. “You have all the pieces, Emma! Why can’t you put them together?”

“Because this is the real world!” she shouted back.

“Every world is real!”

She made for the door. The lock kept her busy for just enough time that Jefferson was able to catch up with her. Gently, he pulled her away from the door and stood in front of it. Just being taller than her was enough to make him look like a threat.

“You don’t understand,” he tried to keep his voice from breaking. “There are so many worlds out there. I’ve been to most of them. The Dark One gave me a hat that I can use to travel from world to world. I could use it to get out of here, but I don’t have it anymore!”

Emma reached for her phone. He grabbed her wrist and pulled the device out of her hand.

“It needs magic,” he explained, as calmly as he could. “I’ve made a hundred hats, but they’re just hats, no good to anyone. I need magic. You have magic. You brought magic to Storybrooke the day you came here.”

She frowned at the phone in his hand and stepped back. “There was nothing different about the day I came here.”

“You’re right.” Keeping her in his sights, he stepped away from the office door and toward the closet. “It was the day after you arrived, the day after you broke the sign. October 24th, 2011. That was the day the clock on the library started to tick.”

Emma just gaped at him. “How could you remember that?”

“It was the most important day in the history of this town. The first real day to happen in twenty-eight years.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Can I show you?” he asked. “I’ll even give you your phone back, so you can tell Mary Margaret you’re okay. But I just need you to promise that you’ll hear me out.”

She glared and held out her hand. “You are damn lucky you don’t have a gun right now.”

He watched her press the buttons, then put her phone back in her pocket.

“You bought yourself another ten minutes because I don’t feel like filling out the paperwork necessary to arrest you.”

Jefferson went to the closet. “It’s in here,” he said. “All the evidence I have is in here.”

She put her hands on her hips, squared her shoulders. “Go get it then.”

Right, Sheriff Swan wasn’t going to be the first one to go through an unknown door in the house of an obvious lunatic. Jefferson opened it, and showed her the newspapers. Twenty-eight stacks and counting. Each stack was made of twelve bundles, reaching to the ceiling. Three hundred and forty one bundles. The whole of the curse, contained in this room.

“I saved them all,” he said. “Twenty-eight years’ worth.”

“So you’ve been saving newspapers since you were, what, five?”

“Since the day I came to this town,” he answered. “Since the day anyone came to this town.” Kneeling on the ground, he moved the smallest pile and pulled out the smallest bundle. “Do you want to know what day that was, Emma?”

She didn’t answer, but he took the paper out from the bottom of the bundle and held it up in front of her.

“Go on,” he growled. “Read it.”

“Uh, it says that Mayor Mills announced a new committee to--”

“Read the date!” he snapped.

Jaw clenched, Emma yanked the paper out of his hands and looked at the top. She didn’t read it out loud, but he saw her eyebrows furrow.

“That’s… my birthday,” she whispered. “Like, that was the day I was born.”

“October 23rd, 1983,” he said. “That was the day the curse started. The day you were born was the day the Evil Queen cursed us all to live in a world without magic.”

“That’s--”

“There was no time.” He didn’t let her speak. “Nothing changed, nothing happened. We were frozen. Most of them didn’t notice, but I did. I remembered, I…” He couldn’t go on. “I thought I was crazy. I thought nothing I knew was real. I thought I had lost everything. But you… You’re the Savior. You can bring it back.”

Emma shook her head and looked down at the newspaper again. “Even if all this is true, why am I the one who has to--wait a minute!” She pointed at the paper, at a picture of the mayor. “This is a crock of shit! That’s Regina! Regina wasn’t mayor on the day I was born!” She flipped through the other pages. “Yeah, look at this. Sydney looks the same in this picture as he does today. Look at the school news, I’ve seen these kids!”

“I told you, time was frozen.”

“Or you put a fake date on an old paper just to mess with me!” She kept looking at the newspaper, seeing but not understanding. “Yeah, this ad here, this is Tim Lewis. He gave me a discount on my car insurance. His daughter, Paige? She looks exactly like she does in this ad. Pretty sure she’s eleven, not thirty-nine.”

Jefferson ripped the paper out of Emma’s hands. “She is not his daughter!” He snarled. “Will you listen to me? That girl’s name is Grace. She is eleven. She has been eleven for twenty-eight years!”

“I--” Emma put her hands up and let out a slow breath. “I don’t think either one of us is going to convince the other.”

“I don’t care if you believe me, I just need you to make a gods-damned hat!”

To Jefferson’s shock, Emma seemed ready to do what he asked, maybe in the name of de-escalating the situation. She went back to the table, slowly sat down, and picked up the felt. “You need this so you can go back to Fairytale Land?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t care about that world anymore. I need to go back to the Discworld.”

Emma squinted as she tried to thread a needle. “Discworld? I’ve heard of those books. They’re supposed to be funny, right?”

Jefferson didn’t smile. “It’s a real place.”

Looking up, Emma opened her mouth, and then closed it. “Sure.” She began to half-heartedly jam the needle between two pieces of felt.

He collapsed into a chair by the telescope. Gods, was she really doing this? Jefferson only knew enough about magic to know that he was better off not playing with it. But if the Dark One was right, then Emma Swan wouldn’t be able to stop herself from using magic. She would do it naturally, maybe accidentally. It wouldn’t matter if the hat looked awful. All it had to do was work.

“My wife is from there,” he offered as a way to make conversation.

Emma didn’t look up from the stitches. “From Discworld? Does that make her a witch or something?”

He shook his head. “Her mother is. I guess she could be too, if she wanted. Most of the time witchcraft is just knowing something other people don’t know.”

“Like how to make a hat?” Emma looked at him through a tube of felt. “It’s been a long time since my last Home Ec class. This is not going to be pretty.”

“It just needs to work,” he muttered. “Just… get it to work.”

Sighing, Emma pulled out her phone again.

“Has she even answered you?” he asked. “Maybe she’s off somewhere screwing David Nolan.”

A glare. “I’m doing you a favor by working on this hat. So maybe you could do me a favor and not say rude things about my friends.”

“I got you here by talking about Kathryn Nolan. Do you actually care about her?”

Emma kept her eyes on her work. “She’s a person. I care about people. She could be lost in the woods, disoriented and hungry. Of course I want to find her.”

“Do you think she’s still alive?”

“I have to hope so.” She cut one of the threads. “We haven’t found a body, or even body parts. If some monster was out there cutting out hearts and putting them in jewelry boxes, at least then there’d be some evidence.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Do you care about Kathryn Nolan? Or do you think she’s just a fairytale character?”

“I care about her because she’s a fairytale character,” Jefferson said. “Her name was Princess Abigail. She was the daughter of King Midas. She gave me a lot of gold just for trying to find a way to reverse the effects of her father’s… gift.”

Emma nodded, clearly humoring him. “I’d heard that King Midas had a daughter. I didn’t know her name was Abigail. Doesn’t sound Greek, but what do I know?” She was sewing the brim on the hat, after that it would be finished.

Jefferson stood up. His feet moved on a schedule that was bigger than Emma Swan. He looked through the telescope. It was nine-thirty. Bedtime.

“Do you want to see her?” he whispered to Emma.

“Kathryn?”

“My daughter.”

They were putting her to bed, Tim and Mia both. She was almost too big for the gesture, but maybe that was why she wanted it so much. Jefferson felt Emma’s presence beside him, and he stepped away from the telescope.

“They never remember to give her the stuffed rabbit,” he said. “That’s the only one that keeps her from having nightmares.”

“Oh, that’s Paige,” Emma said. She looked up from the window. “You… have a telescope pointed at the bedroom of an eleven year old girl.”

“She’s my daughter,” Jefferson repeated. “I’ve lost her mother. Grace doesn’t know who I am. I need to keep an eye on her.”

Emma stayed between Jefferson and the telescope. “Is it because Paige is adopted? Are you her birth father or something?”

He didn’t know whether to scream or cry, so he laughed. Emma kept talking.

“It’s no shame if that’s the case. Believe me, I know how mixed-up it can be to have a kid that’s yours but isn’t yours.”

“Shut up,” Jefferson said through gritted teeth. “Grace is mine. Mine and my wife’s.”

“You said you lost your wife…”

“Yes! And I’ll only find her again once I have a hat that works!” He almost grabbed her by the shoulders, but she was too fast. She made it back to the table and kept it as a barrier between them.

“Enough!” Emma said. She picked up the hat and tossed it over to him. “This is the last of my goodwill, understand? I’m going to leave now. You’re gonna let me out of this room and out of this house. I’m gonna call Tim and tell him to buy his daughter some blackout curtains. If I ever catch wind of you snooping around little girls again, I will personally make sure you rot in jail.”

Jefferson looked down at the crumpled felt in his hands. It was only a hat by the most generous definition. But maybe it would be enough.

When he looked up, Emma was gone. From outside, he heard the rumble of a car engine starting up. As she drove away, the sound grew fainter. He still held the hat in his hands.

It didn’t feel magical. His old hat had a certain… quality. There was an aura about it, not quite tangible. But there was a feeling he got when he looked at his hat. A feeling of… possibility. Like there was so much more to it than what met the eye. There was none of that in the hat Emma had made.

Maybe magic was different here. Maybe there was a way. Some way. He had to try. He would never know if he didn’t try.

He closed his eyes and took a breath. “Please.” With all his heart, he prayed to any power that was listening.

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the hat to the ground, as he had done a thousand different times in a hundred different worlds. The hat spun and he waited for it to keep spinning, waited for it to grow larger and disappear into a whirlpool of purple smoke. He waited for the hole in the whirlpool, the portal that could take him anywhere.

But the hat barely made a full rotation before it stopped spinning. It sat on the ground, unmoving, unmagical.

Jefferson stared at it, until his vision blurred with tears. Then he began to laugh.

Of course it didn’t work! Why would anything work in this world? Of course there was no escape! Of course he was going to die in this world! Or worse--he would live forever in a world without time and he’d never see Leona again.

He sobbed. His legs gave out and sent him careening to the floor. He lay face down on the patterned carpet, stared at Emma Swan’s misshapen hat, and wept like a child.

****

Later--an hour? A year? Did it make a difference?--when couldn’t cry anymore, Jefferson pulled himself off the floor. He made it all the way to the chair before he collapsed again and hung his head in his hands.

It hadn’t worked. The Savior hadn’t worked. The side of goodness hadn’t worked. Well, Jefferson was never one to get too hung up about paltry matters like good and evil.

Slowly wheeling the office chair over to the desk, Jefferson fumbled for the silver telephone. He pushed in numbers he knew by heart, numbers he had wanted to call a dozen times in the past month, but never had. Not until now.

He tried to breathe, as the phone rang. But then he stopped when he heard it pick up. A woman’s voice. Belle’s voice.

“Mr. Gold’s residence. Who is calling?”

Jefferson didn’t speak. He didn’t breathe. Mrs. Gold knew that he had slept with her husband. He couldn’t ask her to put him on the phone. He couldn’t even let her know who he was.

He hung up.

With another deep breath, he pulled a book with yellow pages out from a shelf above the desk. He flipped through the thin paper, until he found the name and number he was looking for.

He dialed slowly, taking a breath between each number. He couldn’t sound like he was upset. He couldn’t show any weakness in front of her.

This was a bad idea. This was the worst idea he could have ever come up with. The last time he’d worked with this woman he had watched her murder a helpless servant once she was no longer useful. How could he know that she wouldn’t do the same to him?

Maybe by the time he wasn’t useful, he would already be in the Discworld.

He needed magic. He needed to get out. He needed power. So he called the most powerful person in town.

Regina picked up on the third ring. “Who exactly do you think you are to be calling my home at this time of night?”

“Your Majesty,” he said calmly. “This is Jefferson the realm-jumper. I’d like to offer my services.”

#golden rings #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #jefferson #hat trick

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kaetastic · 4 years

Text

Where Have You Been? 2

pairing: Harry Potter x Slytherin!Potter!Aunt!Reader (no incest- just aunt and nephew battlin’ through evil :)), (possible future evolution to pairing with Sirius Black)

summary: After years blinded from the tainted power and lies, Y/N Potter finally sees the truth. The truth that urged her to clamber out of the hole created by the Dark Lord. Will young year-2 Harry accept the absence of an aunty he didn’t even know he had?

word count: 4.8k

warning: fluff, heavy angst, guilt, mentions of death

note: lately, i haven’t found myself writing as much, i don’t think it’s w****r’s b***k, it’s just me being distracted by so many other things lmao. thank you for waiting this long for the second part, i’m pretty sure there’ll be a third :)) there’s no harry in this but i wanted to keep the pairing consistent

Harry was just a thirteen-year-old boy. He was a young wizard, trapped in the walls of muggles who wished they had nothing to do with his kind. There was no other safe place for the boy. If Y/N had not fallen into the rabbit hole that branded the mark on her arm, maybe she had the chance to keep her nephew with her. Y/N could do nothing about it. Despite her ideas of getting him out of that suffocating house, to finally enjoy the presence of someone she shared her blood with, to show him what magic truly was, she knew it would only place great danger onto him. Her life which had slanted down like that anticipated, fingers-digging-into-the-railing part of a roller coaster had gone from a flowery childhood to having no other alive family member if Harry was to be excluded.

If the time she had been on the run was to be calculated, it would’ve roughly been thirteen years. Thirteen years of shifting houses to houses. Although, one year, she had feared for the loyal followers to be sent to capture her, the rest twelve, she had to constantly check over her shoulders for a sign of Aurors who were on a mission to chuck every last death eater into Azkaban. Y/N hoped the day where she would not have to leave a bed to enter a new one would come. The witch didn’t mind if it was sooner than said, it would be nice to open windows to the scorching sun with a cup of warm tea in her hands. It would be nice to walk on open streets without a heavy, ominous clock over her head. It would be nice to walk on the streets, not pathways that had been littered with spit.

Although, the sweet victory taste she had dreamed for had turned bitter, acidic to her tongue as if those scenarios she wondered on for hours had been nothing but bait, a tease. The Privet Drive might’ve not been the best place for Harry, but it was the safest for the boy. Well, safer than going on the run with his aunt who had to keep glancing over her shoulders in case a shadow scurried after her.

Even though the wizard had suggested he could follow her since she had magical blood, just like him, the witch had no choice but to turn him down. Even the frown on his face had embedded itself in her memories. The disappointment at the rejection of a better life with the sister of his father had plagued Harry’s time at school. Not before Y/N told him to not mention their meeting to a single soul. It might’ve been hard for the young boy, but he somehow managed… well, apart from his two other friends he had found a strong connection with. Harry had mentioned the name Hermione and Ron during the heart-aching conversation of the early morning in his bedroom. Unfortunately, it had been cut short when the witch had realized the time.

Y/N was sick of scrambling around, running away and cowering from everything. Because she had not only feared the suppressed group that had gone either into hiding or had lied to not face the terrible consequences but also the Aurors. Aurors who had tied a price tag around her head. She couldn’t even defend herself. By that, the witch meant that the way her head had wrapped around the wrong she had done placed her perspective in an angle some people would not believe. In simpler words, Y/N believed- no, she knew that they wouldn’t spare a speck of mercy onto her soul. Even though she had thought of surrendering herself with hands high in the air, the Potter had not been dumb. Not to forget, she had pride. Pride to not give the golden trophy right into the hands of the Aurors.

Then, she made a move. It had been a risky path she fell into, but she moved her Queen piece across the chessboard. The only piece she had defending her sole King. Y/N sent a letter to the headmaster of Hogwarts. Despite her worry about his response since he was in fact, the creator of the Order of the Phoenix, there was no need to overthink of the great wizard’s reply. Dumbledore waited for the day, not losing a bar of hope for the return of the witch. The day she would clamber out of the dark hole she had stumbled into. Taking a chunk of his busy and occupied time, the wizard had made time for her. It was not long before they met up at the place he had chided to her when she was just a twelve-year-old, the place he told her where one should go before they die. Although, the place didn’t live up to the wizard’s words as it had been nighttime, the perfect and safe time for her to be out of her lodging, and it had recently just rained.

“There isn’t anything I say that will defend for what I have done. What I’ve done… it’s unforgivable.” Her gaze trailed down to brush over the clumpy doughs of the drenched soil. The stretched-out shapes had been filled in with the recent shower from the tears of the clouds. Although, the teardrops had been pure, innocent without a speck of tainted colour, now- it was just clouded. Y/N wished that was how she remembered her horribly chosen youth. Unfortunately, it had all been crystal clear. Despite her trying multiple choices of blurring out the wrong she had done, every single moment plays in her head every night. It sat in her mind, permanently.

With her lack of interaction with other wizards to minimize her appearance to the wizard community, obliviating herself wasn’t really an option. There had been some… pathetic muggle suggestions such as hurling her head against a wall. It didn’t take her long before she discarded the idea that would only cause more harm than good. Even though she wished she would not be reminded of such memories, she then remembered one of the few hopes that kept her hanging on that cliff.

No one was placed at such a position like Y/N’s. Well, other than someone she had grown to associate with the passing of years while she was a death eater. Is it still ‘was’? Was the thing she needed to yank out of her chest in the past? The ‘tattoo’ still remained. As time passed, it had faded from the prominent ink. Even though Y/N felt joy unfurl in her chest at the thought of it becoming non-existent, ready to see her bare arm once again without the hideous memory from her past, it lingered. The mark stayed to torture her every second. The branding on her arm had been the last string that labelled her as a death eater. She had not found anything to remove it. Y/N had gone through books after books, crumbling pages to flying lines, unreadable handwritings to hidden, enchanted chapters. None had given her an ounce of hope she needed.

“There have been many people who’ve done nothing but wrong their whole lives, yet, they always had something to say. What makes you an exception?” The man quirked up, his silvery eyebrows jumped at her figure with his infamous words that had been packed full of knowledge and riddle. It had always been like that, ever since she was just a child, the man who still rocked his extensive beard had become a prominent feature. Although, the two lost contact as she dived into the side she was warned about during dinner. Dinners that lasted short, a smudged out memory. Y/N pressed her lips in thought, fingers twiddling without a slight intrusion in her head. A habit she had grown up with. And like as always, he cut her off with another sentence for her to process. “If I remember correctly, you mentioned in the letter that you have not done more than maiming someone.”

“In the name of the Dark Lord.”

“Yes, but it was for your survival,” Dumbledore interjected. Oh, he always had his way with his speeches and his sentences.

A sigh brushed her lips, creaking into the heavy air of the light wind toying with the hairs of trees as if they were puppets. Pushing her legs to rest her back against the bench that had been damp from the previous shower, Y/N murmured without peeling her eyes away from her fingers, “He killed Regulus. Regulus never came back, you know? After a trip, he was gone… forever. That’s what made me doubt my choices. His death was the sole reason I had left.”

“Regulus Black. Sirius’s younger brother.”

Y/N hummed while her arms slithered to wrap around her body, the chilling kiss of the air had been merciless to the defence of her clothing, “Regulus Arcturus Black. Whenever I was lazy to call his name even though it’s just seven letters, I called him ‘R.A.B’,” She let out a chuckle since it had been her joke for the boy to embrace the three letters as his signature, before the corners of her lips curled down in realization. “Although, now, I seem to find the longer being comforting.”

“There’s no need to worry, what matters most is your safety. You must try to stray away from any sight of those who may seem interested. I will write a letter once Harry starts his third year.” Y/N nodded even though she was slightly reluctant to the life she would have to shift her own foot in. Deep down, she knew, no matter what other’s would say to comfort and calm down her nerves, she would always have something to fidget about. Something that came in the package when one falls into the Death Eater’s path.

It had barely been a month since she had met with the well-known headmaster, and Y/N hadn’t exactly found peace in continuing her life of being a criminal. The ability to sit still in a seat for longer than fifteen minutes was non-existent. Thoughts ran, scrambling from one side of her head to the other without rest. Every second, she would always have something to think of. A smart decision she made during her Hogwarts years was focusing during classes despite her side chores, so, it only became helpful when she needed a vial of ‘Draught of Peace’ or ‘Calming Draught’ to calm down her relentless thoughts.

Harry recently started his third year at Hogwarts as the letter sent by the one and only, Dumbledore. The wizard had reminded her as he had promised; although, she remembered the day the students would be going back to school. Y/N could only stare into the abyss while she dreamed of walking onto the ground of the school once more. Oh, to feel the chilling stone walls during winter. She could only dream.

It was for the safety of her nephew, and for her to stay in hiding that she didn’t write to the boy; even though she desperately wanted to. So, Y/N spent hours on the crooked wooden desk which had been slanted down, the folded piece of newspaper had begun to damp in the humid air, melting into the floor. The witch wasted hours of her day that flew by once she completed the letter to her heart’s desire. Days that stretched out when she didn’t occupy herself.

She could barely count the number of lines she had scribbled down onto countless yellow sheets of paper. After a day of jotting down hefty block of paragraphs that was enough to build castles, she would stuff the pile of letters away, under her bed, or she would try her best to cram the sheets into the minuscule gaps between tattered books and the shelves. Most addressed to her nephew, now, just unsent thoughts that had been occupying her head, and desires of her heart which she had no one to pour out to.

There was nothing Y/N could do. She was edging to the last sentence of her book, the last chapter of her story. If she was to stay, all she would have is Harry. Even so, she didn’t have him. The young wizard was hurled into the palms of her sister-in-law, muggles who hated whatever wizards were capable of.

Maybe the only reason she reached out to Dumbledore was because she had information, intel that would be impeccably useful to the Order. Things the members wouldn’t even be able to smear against, things they can’t even imagine. Comparing herself to some members of the organization who had achieved great things in the available tasks by the Ministry, Y/N had seen far more than some of them has. She has seen gruesome sights, sights she wished she had glanced away from. However, she knew, she knew he was watching.

That was her lifestyle now. The witch would have to suck it up, swallow the truth and deal with the reality she was stuck in. Stranded in a sole, pathetic room of a sad excuse of a building. Y/N had barely left the place she would have to call home. There had been multiple times the owner had tried to usher the lady out for a quick talk, Y/N did not want to risk anything. The only walls that had been present in the rented room were for the loo, that- she was grateful for.

Then, news broke out into the wizarding community, it cracked over their heads like a spoiled egg, the yolk oozing out in a battered pace before it splattered into a squelch. News that sent everyone into a frenzy, news that made heads poked into corners of streets before they proceeded to walk the route they had been used to for years. News of the notorious Sirius Black breaking out of Azkaban. It was impossible. No one had fled away from the prison. He was the first.

However, unlike most, Y/N knew things some didn’t know. It was not belief, rather, she knew the truth. Sirius Black did not do the things wizards and witches had whispered into each other’s ears. He was not capable of said-things. Y/N had met the man from his tight friendship with her older brother. Friendship that people had poked at him for being weak since he had shown his back to James. Those people knew nothing. They didn’t know how close they were for James to bring the boy to live at their house. They didn’t know that her parents had seen Sirius as their son. No one knew the truth, yet, they still let their words slip up into stubborn rumours.

During her years of being a death eater, side-by-side with Regulus, her head held high without a quiver in her bone, Y/N had heard and seen things. Maybe some of them she should’ve not even eavesdropped on. It would’ve cost her life… she still did so. Y/N was meant to be in Slytherin, it was destiny that she had denied ever since the hat had spoken, and she saw her brother’s expression falter at the declaration. Despite her opposition to the situation, she wore the new shoes perfectly. The first few years, she was as close to her brother as she was before, any time she saw him in the corridor, she would wave, or they would pick up a desultory conversation. With that, he had introduced his friends. Y/N could see the tight rope around them, bonds she can’t see broken. Or so she thought.

Then, it inched to her fourth year when she truly distanced herself. No, nothing would be blamed onto Regulus, no idea of his would be looked upon for the dead could not even defend himself. Y/N fell onto the path her parents had prominently warned her about. Their occasional talks about people who were surrounded with an aura that would send shivers down their spines sparked into muffled ears. Those lectures and lessons were all forgotten as Y/N found comfort standing beside the person she could not tear herself from.

Walburga would accept the girl with warm embrace. Although, that came with its consequences. Y/N had to sit at the dining table, next to Regulus while the woman rambled poison-filled words about her parents who were not ashamed to be in the presence of muggles. The blinded girl did as her blurred head told her to do so, she tolerated the blows to her gut. It was only rare times when Regulus would speak up to stop his mother from hurling more onto the meal made by the elf. Despite Walburga’s hatred for Y/N’s parents, the woman had mentioned countless times that she had filled in the shameful place of her other son. Y/N was sure the empty space in her house had been plucked in with Sirius Black.

Regulus would just be flushed with crimson red whenever his mother had brought up the two. She always took the chance to talk about how good they looked next to each other. There were few, forgotten times when she had dropped the word marriage. However, there was nothing but friendship between the two that would constantly burgeon, blossoming every second of every day. Walburga would swat it away, not believing them.

It was true, despite the pureblood mother believing the two had something going on. It was nothing but friendship. Sure, there had been gentle kisses against cheeks, but it was nothing more.

Everything then fell apart. She didn’t know who was amusing themselves by having a poke at the blocks of her life, but she knew it had wavered her platform. It was Regulus, then, it was her mother and father. The night when the elf had stumbled into the Grimmauld place, an ominous locket in his grasp, Y/N’s head went into a frenzy. She had never seen the creature look so distraught. The only reason she had remained at the house was because she had nowhere else to go. It wasn’t until days she would piece everything together. Regulus had gone, so the house-elf had confessed. The truth was not to be told to his family. How did anyone expect her to stay at the house she had made unforgettable memories? Y/N left, not even a farewell or a note for the family.

The two had whispered conversations of the truth of becoming a death eater, they would do so under their breaths, afraid of who might listen. Whatever Regulus did, she did too.

Kreacher said he had been ordered by Regulus to go back home with the locket, leaving the wizard to die. Y/N had screamed at the creature for his pathetic words, thankfully, Walburga nor Orion was at home. The two Slytherins had discussed of the Dark Lord’s attempt to murder the house-elf before they dived into countless pages, all so they could land to assume that the locket had been a Horcrux. The two eighteen-year-olds had just found out the deepest secret of the Dark Lord. And one of them died with the truth, while the other ran for her life.

If it wasn’t enough, Y/N could not even attend the funeral of her parents. The people she had not spoken to for years. She had listened to the words on the street that it was to Dragon Pox. It was then Y/N had to sit through excruciating months before she had the chance to visit their graves. The last she had seen their faces was a photo she had absent-mindedly packed before she had run away from home. If seeing her parents in flesh was in consideration, it was the sobbing mother who could not calm her hiccups in tears with every caress of her husband’s warmth. The photo might’ve been the best mistake she had ever made.

In the midst of 1980, thoughts that would only surface when the sun no longer exists had steered the witch away from the path she thought she would be on until she bled to death. Just before she allowed the thought of living her life on the run consumed her, she had planned and listed out everything that would come as consequences if she was to proceed. That was when she tumbled over something. Still a death eater, she had stumbled upon the voice of a man who had been deeply trusted by her brother conversing with none other than the leader of the dark. His squeaky voice poured out every information he had about James and Lily. However, that was not the thing she had eavesdropped on. It was the fact that the man was Peter Pettigrew, the boy who would trail with the group. All so he could fall under the protection of the Dark Lord. What a grave mistake he had made.

Y/N didn’t know what it was in her, but she then cut off any ties with the death eaters. That sounded easier than it truly was. There would be nights when she would feel her arm burn, flames piercing into her skin. He was angry, furious- she knew. All she could do was clutch onto the frigid sheets of the bed around her inflamed arm. She lived and survived, something she didn’t know how she came out successful, and lived her life on the run, always on edge. She stayed at multiple places, hoping the dark lord and his goons had not found her. To her luck, the pain dimmed down, she had only felt the faintest of a sting at the mark.

Then, it was the unseen, unfortunate death of James and Lily. Y/N didn’t waste a second when she had heard a man regurgitate the words at the bar to sprint towards the house. The motionless figure of the man she once had picked on for accidentally wearing her jumper of an adorable bunny. So, she cradled his chilling body while streams of tears gush out of her eyes. There was no one left for her. That was, until she reluctantly pulled away from the corpse to follow the boisterous cries. Up the mess of a corridor and into a nursery with planks of wood decorating the floor She was met by a gruesome sight of her sister-in-law, flat on the ground, and the relentless toddler who the dark lord feared, her nephew.

Even though Y/N wished to spend more time, she had no choice but to peel herself away. She apparated away once she jumped through the window. Not long after, it was the rest of the Order’s turn to take in the event.

Y/N knew there had been some death eaters who remained loyal to the dark lord despite his fall. Some had been locked up in Azkaban, while the rest still sauntered over streets casually. She knew some of them would be chasing after her, she knew the Ministry was searching for her, so why did she fall for the words scribbled by Dumbledore to meet up with Remus?

“Sirius didn’t kill James and Lily.” Remus nodded, his eyes finding the sight of the pond to be more captivating.

“I know.”

“Sirius didn’t murder those muggles.” Remus nodded once again.

“I know.”

“You know, yet, you had not defended the man when everyone’s ears had been stuffed with lies.” The wizard could only press his lips, lost in thought.

“Y/N, listen, we haven’t exactly been on the same path, but I feel like we are now,” The witch’s eyebrows furrowed. Remus swung from the same bench she had sat with Dumbledore. “I wanted to meet you when Dumbledore had told me he had met you. Although, I didn’t have a good excuse to do so. Now, I do.”

His ominous words had only made her fingers crawl towards her wand. Neck snapping towards the rustling of leaves, she shot up from the seat, the wooden stick pointing towards the source of noise. With a spell murmured by Remus, her wand was out of her hand. She didn’t want to falter her gaze from the shadow that poured out of the bushes, but she couldn’t help her expression morphing into that of betrayal. Remus didn’t bother to send a face to comfort her.

Y/N felt every muscle in her body freeze, every fibre was pulled taut before they remained stationary. The black dog paced towards her at a casual pace, almost approaching her carefully. Its eyes, it looked familiar. She had seen it somewhere. And no wonder… she had. Before her eyes, the dog transformed into a man who was dressed in tattered and shabby clothing of dull colours. The face of the man who had been plastered all across newspapers and streets, “Sirius?”

Maybe she should’ve panicked first, to why he had even put himself at risk, her even, but she reverted to another path. She saw Regulus in him. The infamous Black’s dark hair which Regulus would gingerly trim and take care of had flourished on Sirius’s head.

“You’ve got to be joking me,” Y/N gushed out, the corners of her lips curled up in amusement even though she felt anything but amusement. “Are you out of your mind? You truly have gone insane in Azkaban.”

The witch turned to face Remus, “You too. Is this the plan of yours? What? To bag me up for the Ministry?”

Remus sighed out, his fingers splayed out against her wand, “Sirius wanted to meet you, the reason, he had not told me. This meeting is not a trick, no one knows Sirius is here.”

“Will you be holding my wand throughout this?” The man could only give her a slight nod of his head. Y/N let out a frustrated huff. “Fine, get on with it, I can’t wait to leave the country after this.”

“Do you know of Peter’s boundaries?” Sirius’s voice sounded hoarse, raspy as if he desperately needed water. Maybe that’s what happens when one has just escaped a prison which was believed to prevent escapes.

Y/N’s face transformed into that of an offended expression, “Peter Pettigrew?” Once the man confirmed with a nod of his head, Y/N scoffed at the accusation. “What makes you think I know where he is?”

“Well, you two bear the mark,” The words fell off his tongue without a care for her. “You two sold yourselves to Voldemort, it would only make sense if you knew where the traitor is.”

“Sorry to break it to you, but I have no idea of where he is.”

Seconds morphed into minutes, minutes of Sirius’s eyes beaming onto her, “Have you bothered to search for him? Did you even know he was the one who sold out James and Lily to Voldemort?”

“I know a lot of things, Black,” Y/N sneered. “To satisfy your endless questions, I’ve done everything I could to find him when I happened to stumble upon his voice at the Malfoy’s home.”

“You knew that Peter was meeting with Voldemort and you didn’t bother to spend a cent on the thought that it would be James and Lily’s fall? Were you too busy snogging my brother?”

The mention of Regulus sparked up something in her chest, something that spun through hurricanes, Y/N’s expression hardened at the sight of the man, “Do not speak ill of Regulus.”

“Still defending my brother? You two never parted away from each other, every corner I turn at school, you two were always side-by-side.” Sirius could feel the corners of his lips curl up.

“Sirius,” Remus interjected to stop the man, he knew this would not go well if the convict had not held himself back.

“How hard it must’ve been for you to see him gone.”

Y/N could feel her fingers furl with every word he uttered, “He was your brother.”

“Was. I was exiled from my family, remember? You would remember clearly, I remember the day you left home to stay at that horrid place.”

“Sirius, that’s enough.”

“No! Remus! She must know the pain she inflicted onto her parents when she stepped away from that house, the sadness James drowned himself in when he couldn’t find any way to invite you to his wedding.”

“Would you stop mentioning my brother?”

“Oh, so now you consider him with sentiment? What happened to avoiding us?”

“Are you done? I had only prayed the meeting with Remus to be civilized, yet, here you are.” She sneered.

“Why do you fear of talking about James? Are you turning away like a coward? Now?”

“I don’t want to talk about James because I’m not in the mood for it, Sirius.”

“When are you in the mood then? Is it because you are saddened by the fact that you couldn’t take Harry when you visited their house?” Y/N accidentally allowed her eyes to widen at his words “You didn’t think we wouldn’t know?”

“I was in no position to take Harry.”

“You were in every position to take Harry!” Sirius yelled out, his veins popping up to bulge into the air. “You are his blood! His aunt! His godmother!”

“His what?”

taglist: @teheharrypotter

#harry potter x reader #harry potter oneshot #harry potter oneshots #harry potter imagine #harry potter imagines #harry potter fanfic #harry potter ff #harry potter fanfiction #potter!reader #harry potter angst #harry potter x potter!reader #harry potter x potter!aunt!reader #potter!aunt!reader

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marril96 · 4 years

Text

Rowena Said

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: Rowena says a lot of things. Not all of them are true.

Editor: @miss-moon-guardian

*****

Rowena once told you she couldn't love. Pride tinged her face as she said it, as if it were an accomplishment, a feat she'd worked hard to archive. It was never a secret, her disdain for emotions, her complete and utter indifference to them. As if they were beneath her, filth under bear the soles of her high heels. Too lowly. Too human for a witch of her caliber — a witch she'd fought tooth and nail to become.

She told you she didn't cook or clean. That was what the maids were for, she reasoned. She was a lady, a missus, a queen in everything but title; housework was as beneath her as emotions.

She said she hated modern music, and proclaimed — loudly, without a shred of hesitation — her disdain for contemporary art, finding it stale, tasteless. Lacking everything that made it mean something, that made it burrow itself into people's hearts like a benevolent ghost. Nothing could compare to the good old times, she said. The muses must have abandoned humanity long ago.

She said she was the best, and the Grand Coven was beneath her. That they only bound her magic because they were frightened of her greatness for they knew they could never reach their own. That they were persecuting her — hunting her — because she was everything they wanted to be and never could. Because she was born with power, and they were born with nothing. Because she wouldn't let them control her, reign her in and tame her like an animal. Because she was better.

Rowena said she was a horrible mother, and openly expressed her disdain for children. It wasn't that she wanted to hate her son; that was just the way she was, as inborn as the red of her hair and the green of her eyes.

She claimed to hate people, humans and monsters alike. Said she felt no remorse at taking a life, innocent or not. Nobody was innocent, she mused. They'd all done something; they'd all caused pain and ruin. Had to have for, at their core, they were living beings. Their hearts beat and blood pumped in their veins. They were capable of bad as well as good, and they had to have given in, at least once. Innocence was a myth sold to the masses to manipulate them, to make them feel guilty. Rowena was long past that.

She said she trusted no one, and advised you to do the same. People would only hurt you, she told you. They would rip your heart out when you least expected it, and stomp on it until it was in ruins. Until you were in ruins. They didn't care about you, so why should you extend that courtesy to them? You owed them nothing, and they had no right to expect otherwise. Sweet words and hugs were meaningless. Too risky in such a cruel, cruel world.

She told you Lucifer was safe. She didn't trust him — she simply relied on him. He was her (and, by extension, your) way to the greatness she deserved, that she was owed. She assured you it would be okay.

When it turned out to not be okay, and you were bawling your eyes out, thinking her dead, she told you she'd been stupid. It was the first time you'd heard her speak negatively about herself. Rowena MacLeod had the/an ego the size of the entire world; she didn't bring herself down. Not ever.

That was when things started to change.

She spoke of revenge, of everything bad she wanted to do to the Devil and knew she couldn't for he was an archangel and she was a witch whose magic had been bound.

She convinced you to give Amara a try, and then that the Winchesters and Crowley were a safer bet. They could take care of Lucifer, she said, and the two of you wouldn't have to live in hiding anymore. You could be free again.

As the world started going to hell, she proposed a spell of going back in time. You could live out your lives in the middle ages, and, as per the witch Clea's suggestion, in Ancient Greece. It would be fun, she said. You weren't too happy about the idea, but you agreed. You would do anything for her, anything she asked. Anything to be with her, even if it meant living in times that scared you, that weirded you out with their difference to what you were used to.

To your relief, when Sam Winchester came with a proposal of partnership, Rowena agreed. She told you Lucifer couldn't hurt you. She promised she would make sure of it.

Upon noticing your discomfort, she said her flirtation with God meant nothing. She was just having some fun, she said. Nothing serious. Nothing worth getting upset over.

And later, in the Bunker's kitchen, when you were sobbing about the world's inevitable end, and admitting your feelings out loud — for what did it matter anymore? You were going to Hell anyway. There was no point in pretending you saw her as just a friend — she took your hands, said she liked you, as well, and kissed you for the very first time, and it was everything you dreamed of and more. So much more that you no longer feared Hell for you'd finally gotten a taste of Heaven.

She told you you were beautiful. She called you her wee lass, and you, in turn, proclaimed her your girl.

She called you darling, dear, love. Made you hers in actions as well as words.

She held you. Cherished you. Kissed you over and over like an addict, always craving more, and you were more than willing to give it.

She told you she loved you, out of the blue, completely unexpected. An unusual proclamation for, as loving as she was, she preferred to show it in actions rather than words. Your startled look frightened her, made her flinch, and you could tell she was flashing back to her last love, the one who'd promised her the world and had abandoned her helf dead, her thighs slick with blood, a screaming infant in her arms.

It was over in an instant for your smile, big and bright as summer skies, elicited one of her own, and before she could utter another word, your arms were thrown around her and you were holding her tight and promising it was forever. Promising you were forever, if she wanted you.

She told you she did. More than anything, ever.

She called you silly names — Scottish, and you always demanded an explanation. When Rowena was feeling petty, you had to resort to Google — and chastised you when you messed the simplest things up. Half-heartedly, of course, for it seemed she was incapable of getting angry at you. True anger, the kind where her magic flared and sparked and destroyed everything in its path. That was reserved for enemies. For hunters, demons, and unfriendly witches. The worst your arguments elicited were eye-rolls and doors slamming shut as she walked away, stomping like a pissed off rabbit — an adorable, pouty pissed off rabbit.

After her last horrid death at the Devil's hands, Rowena told you she was scared. She tried to keep it to herself, but it was hard to hide the nightmares that drenched her in sweat, and screams and flashbacks in the middle of the day. She told you she was terrified. Called herself pathetic, a weakling. You were quick to assure her she was not. She was just in pain. PTSD was tough on a person.

She tried to deny she had it, but eventually had to look the facts in the face. The symptoms were there, painted in her every move, every twitch. She had post-traumatic stress disorder. And she was terrified of it.

She said she missed her son, and expressed regret you'd never before seen on her face, especially about her treatment of him. She'd been a horrible mother to him. She'd hurt him. Abused him. Abandoned him like he was trash she couldn't wait to get rid of. He'd been the one person who'd loved her unconditionally, who'd depended on her, and she'd let him down. She'd put him through hell. And when she'd found him again all these centuries later, she'd proceeded to do the same.

She told you she let down everyone in her life. Fergus. Oskar. Herself. And, eventually, she would let you down as well. You took her hand and told her — promised her, swore it on your life — that would never happen. She was a different person now. She'd changed.

She thought herself unworthy of redemption, only to be assured by you, and later by the Winchesters, that there was a chance for her. She could redeem herself. She could become a good person. In your eyes, she already had.

She talked sweet to you when you were sick. Made you potions and let you rest on her chest. Rocked you like a child in need of comfort.

She expressed her distaste at the amount of sugar in your tea and coffee, but still made them for you every single morning — exactly the way you liked them, sugar galore. She cooked your favorite foods to surprise you, and made you that cake you liked but couldn't seem to get the recipe to work. She made it work.

She took you out to shop, and complimented every outfit, even those you felt insecure wearing. Especially those. She made you feel comfortable wearing clothes you didn't think flattered you. "What is a body but a canvas?," she would say. "What is fabric but a brush and paint?" She thought you beautiful, and, by doing so, made you feel beautiful. Made you feel like a queen walking by her, an actual queen in everything but title.

She praised any work you did. Encouraged your hobbies, however strange she might have found them. Taught you the most difficult spells, and ensured her it was okay if you couldn't cast them perfectly right away. Some things took more practice than others. There was potential in you; you just had to work hard for a little bit longer.

She was right, every single time.

She learned from you what love was. That it wasn't a weakness. That it shouldn't hurt. She wasn't afraid of it anymore; she loved you openly, without fear, without shame. Without even a sliver of a doubt about your feelings.

You told her she looked happy. She said that she was. Had never been happier, and she had you to thank for it.

Rowena said a lot of things. Some of them were lies, and others the utmost truth. Some were insecurities baring their pointed teeth. Desperation and fear, thick as the blood in her veins. Pain. Sorrow. Helplessness she would never admit to out loud. Then there was confidence, loud as her voice, never wavering. Never backing down. Inner strength that rivaled her magic.

She was a complicated creature. One of a kind. An acquired taste.

You regretted not a single thing.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @shadowgirl-vsb @rowenaswife @wonderifshelikesroses @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @lae-lae @darkhumorsblog @angel7376 @cherrypierowena @evil-regal-vampiress @hellbentredhead @angel-e-v-a @a-queen-and-her-throne @carryon-doctor-lock @fangirlxwritesx67 @theeasterbilby @midnight-lestrange @oster-hagen @impala-1979

#rowena #rowena macleod #spn #supernatural #spn family #fanfiction #fanfic #my fics #rowena x reader

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ears-awake-eyes-opened · 4 years

Text

Three Seasons in Wonderland

(Haymitch sleeps better holding Effie instead of a knife. Sensual content. NSFW depending on your sensitivities. — I hopped on board this ship quite late, like the white rabbit. Better late than never; this experience is a joy.)

*TAKE ME*

🐇 🎩

‘...Have I gone mad?’ ‘I'm afraid so. You're entirely bonkers. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are...’ (L.C.)

***

*OPEN ME*

WINTER 🌧⚡️

‘...How long is forever? Sometimes just one second...’ (L.C.)

The first time he slept with her — with anyone — he was 47. Then it happened. Inadvertently... almost.

“Don’t let me fall asleep,” he told her.

“Why not?”

They’d been having sex on and off for 5 years, and she knew he would answer as he always did.

“I don’t sleep without holding my knife.”

“Keep holding ME instead...”

She was persuasive that night: clinging afterwards as he softened inside her, threading her fingers through his hair, taking his warnings on the tip of her tongue and swallowing them whole. In that moment of intoxicating sobriety, he fell asleep with her.

When he startled awake later, he thought her a courageous fool to be tangled up with him. Logic called him to go sleep on the couch, as usual, but the air was cold, and he told logic to wait. He wanted more of her.

His mind was too sleepy to tease out the fragrances — flowers, maybe vanilla. Tracing the handle of his knife was his usual routine. He obviously couldn’t do that without the knife, but his fingertips could sketch its length at the base of her spine, along her wrists, between her breasts.

Sliding down until his feet hung off the bed, he rested his forehead against her heartbeat and slung his arm over her hip. If she woke, he’d caress her in other places until she was ready for him to fuck her again, but he didn’t want to wake her. He wanted to feel her breathing. He wanted the fleeting feeling of safety that came to him on rare occasions.

In thundering stillness, he slipped down the rabbit hole and held her there in Wonderland. On the roof, rain tapped into nothingness. He’d walked through it, and she’d made him warm. For a second, anything beyond Effie ceased to be relevant.

‘...In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again...’ (L.C.)

Haymitch didn’t dare name the feeling. He just let his eyes close.

***

*DRINK ME*

SPRING 🐦💦

‘...At least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then...’ (L.C.)

The room was still dark when a Mockingjay called her awake. Another echoed, and a conversation between the two ensued. The geese started up next, searching for a breakfast of shoots and worms in thawed soil.

Haymitch slept through it all like the dead, even though he’d gone to bed relatively sober. His chin rested above her collarbone, and he breathed evenly against her neck. The sensations tickled, and she leaned into them instead of pulling away.

He shifted his hands on her arm, holding her like a child snuggles a blanket. Effie wriggled her toes in between his leg and the flannel sheets. She pulled at the covers which had slipped to his side of the bed.

His side of the bed. The thought was a novelty.

His warmth made her sleepy, but falling back to sleep was impossible with every bird in District 12 gathered outside the window and the first light of sunrise peeking through the curtains.

She’d brought those last year to replace the yellowed sheets which used to hang in the window. At first Haymitch had complained about her *gift* as controlling, but he must have liked the curtains since he didn’t take them down.

As much as she wanted coffee, she needed this more — this closeness of waking up with him beside her rather than on the couch. She covered his hands and tucked her fingers against his chest.

“Are you trying to freeze me to death,” he muttered, “Your hands and feet are like ice.”

“Well, they wouldn’t be if you hadn’t stolen the blankets — again.”

“You have them ALL”

“I just took them back!”

He stretched across her waist. The far side of her body was cold too, so he acquiesced to her version of the truth.

“Want me to warm you up?” he whispered into the crook of her neck, plucking kisses in between words.

She caressed low on his stomach, feeling fine hairs and scar tissue. The intimacy was tempting.

“Don’t touch my dick until your hands are warm.”

She chuckled and thought for a moment. “My mouth is warm... Do you want to feel it?”

He propped himself up on his elbow and brushed a thumb across her lips. Her hair was a tangled halo on the pillow. She was a soft mess, and, fuck yes, he wanted her mouth on him.

“Yeah, I wanna feel it.”

“I want to feel yours too. ...Shall we?”

“I sure as hell ain’t gonna say no to you sitting on my face and sucking my dick.”

Effie rolled her eyes. “Must you be so unromantic!”

“Romance is overrated.” He stroked the laugh lines on her cheeks. In the dim light he couldn’t see them, but he liked knowing that she was smiling and they were there.

She touched his chest. “I think you actually have more inside you than you care to admit.”

“I’ve got PLENTY inside me, sweetheart, but it’s not romance.”

The deep truth was she enjoyed him like crazy. She’d been thirsty so long for sleeping with him and waking up him. Now that this connection was accessible to her, work was in the Capitol and his life was here. His life was always going to be here.

‘...If you knew Time as well as I do,’ said the Hatter, ‘you wouldn’t talk about wasting it. It’s him...’ (L.C.)

Effie wasn’t sure what she wanted to do in time with this awareness.

***

*EAT ME*

SUMMER ☀️🔥

“...A dream is not reality but who’s to say which is which?...” (L.C.)

Midnight was as warm as high noon had been. Every window was open, yet the house was still filled with the day’s stagnation. A cotton nightie was the only thing separating Effie from the furnace that was Haymitch’s body. In sleep, he’d rolled onto her pillow and draped his arm and leg across her. His fingertips brushed low on her spine, which might have been erotic if not for the sweat beading up everywhere he touched.

She tried rolling onto her back with a plan to escape to the edge of the bed, but he was dead weight pinning her down. She tried rolling him off, but he just pulled her closer in an unconscious death grip — death by heat stroke, considering the way this was going.

“Haymitch...” she whispered, not wanting to startle him.

Irritated when he didn’t respond, she spoke louder. “Haymitch, I’m suffocating here.”

“Haymitch Abernathy!!”

In a dream he heard his mother’s voice, chastising him for running into the house and leaving the door open behind him. Still asleep, he mumbled her old words. “We don’t live in a barn.”

He was hard to wake after falling asleep drinking. Effie considered the possibilities: smacking him, pinching him, stroking his dick... The latter seemed like the safer way to try to wake up a man who sleeps with a knife when he’s not in bed with her.

She was not gentle about it, tugging him while describing the things she could do to him when he woke up. Like ring your neck!

Still asleep, he murmured, “Need you, Effie.”

“Then wake up, honey,” she told him.

“I love you.” The words came out so quietly in sleep that she wondered if she imagined them.

Holy shit. “What?” Reeling, she stilled her hand. She hadn’t imagined them.

Haymitch groaned, and finally woke up, disoriented at first, then aware of her fingers curled around him.

“What are you doing, sweetheart?” He yawned. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“It’s hot. I need space, and I couldn’t wake you...” Her voice wavered. “So I thought... ” She was too choked up to keep talking.

He lifted his arm and leg off of her. She was sweating where his weight had been.

“Are you alright?”

You love me. She didn’t say it, because all at once she knew it was true. Maybe the reality was unconscious. Maybe it was a conscious truth which he kept silent. Tears gathered in her eyes and threatened to spill onto her cheeks. She held them in, because how would she explain them?

Having heard them in her voice, he touched beneath her eyes in the dark and was confused when her face was dry. She let go of him, sat up in bed, and stripped off her nightgown. He watched her silhouette framed by the open window behind her. A fleeting breeze on her skin chased away some of the sweltering.

“You can’t hold me so tight!” She was breaking open, and how could she explain? She loved him. She was in love with him, but those words were only for dreams.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to. Guess I’ve just gotten used to this.” Sleeping without you is miserable now, he didn’t say. He sat up and slung his legs over the edge of the bed, facing away from her but not leaving.

She knelt behind him and gently kneaded the back of his neck. “Do you have any idea how much it means to me to sleep in this bed with you?”

“Yeah, I do.” His certainty surprised her since they hadn’t discussed it.

“This with you is like air for me.” She was crying now for sure. He didn’t need to touch her cheeks to know it. “...I also need to be able to actually breathe.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. I still think that I’ll wake up, and you’ll be dead. I don’t know how I’m ever not gonna think about that.”

She slid her hands down his chest and kissed the top of his head, his temple, the soft spot beside his ear. “We’ve been sleeping together for 7 months, and I’m still alive.”

He gripped her hands. She was part of his life. Confusing as hell, annoying as fuck, and so precious. You’re the best goddamn part. He’d known it for years. “I want you to stay alive.” I need you to stay alive.

“Come here.” She let go of his hands and lay back on the sheets.

There was too much running through his mind. “I don’t want to sleep.”

“Neither do I.”

He turned to see what he could of her in the dark. The moment was silver and otherworldly. “My ma called this ‘The Witching Hour.’ When I was a kid, it made me think of demons and shit.”

“Maybe that’s something parents say to convince their children to go to sleep long before midnight.”

“Could be.”

“My Nana called it ‘The Magic Hour.’ She’d say to me, ‘I miss the magic hour. My bones are too old to stay awake for it.’...”

Haymitch slid back into bed. Her stories of her great-grandmother were soothing.

“...When she talked about it, I wanted to stay awake to feel that magic too. ‘Your bones are still too young,” she’d say, ‘You’ll feel the magic when it’s your time.’”

Effie scooted closer, lying face to face with him on his pillow, close enough to feel his breath on her lips.

He was hesitant to touch her because of what happened before. “Is this your time to feel it?”

“Yes, honey. We’re in it.”

“I wanna kiss you.”

All that she was feeling poured into his mouth and over his body, and came flooding back as he fucked her in the feeling of stagnant fire and magic.

Her eyes closed afterward. “I’ll be alive in the morning. Do you trust me?”

He held her arm, and traced the tendons along her wrist instead of the handle of his knife. “I’m trying.”

‘...Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible...’ (L.C.)

Almost anything could happen for a moment, and what’s life if not a series of moments? Madness. Rain, song, and demons. Falling into the unconscious, and coming undone.

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magicalforcesau · 4 years

Text

Dancing with Ghosts in Your Garden ~ Chapter 1: Year 1- Summer

Ao3 link:

Summer came and went with the fleeting heat of a fever dream for young Anakin Skywalker. Aside from his general distaste for summer as a season with its blazing sun and sandy beaches, the overall course of the months seemed to elongate simply because for the first time in his entire life, he was excited to go to school.

He’d never belonged at school with the muggles. Not only did he constantly have to stress over hiding who he was, which frustrated him to no end, but he was somehow still painted as a freak. This would lead to Anakin getting into some form of a scuffle, which would result in accidental use of magic.

His repertoire of indiscretions included, but was not limited to:

Sending a student into a never-ending hole in the ground

Floating up and away

Causing a bully to only be able to breathe underwater

Pantsing another bully in front of a pretty girl (okay, he didn’t use magic for that one)

Making a parent on the PTA turn mute

Transforming his entire class’s musical instruments into live snakes

Burping the alphabet, but with explosive fire (this was more of a result of spicy foods than confrontation)

Turning a teacher into a fat purple penguin

And this meant he often hopped around schools like it was a playground game. He’d never had that many friends, and when he did, he understood that it was never meant to last. Honestly, none of the magical situations he got himself into were on purpose. They simply transpired from a raw energy within him, or so his mother always defended when the Ministry of Magic came calling.

This didn’t make the face she made every time he returned with an expulsion notice any easier. She insisted that she wasn’t mad and that she loved him regardless, but he knew that somewhere deep down she wished she had a child that didn’t force her to uproot her life so often.

It helped that she was also a wizard, but she’d given up that life in favor of the muggle world and sought to raise Anakin in it as well. She never used magic, save for the rare moments where she had to hastily put out a fire or turn a person back into their rightful form; always on the account of one of his accidental outbursts. It wasn’t that she detested it, but that Shmi Skywalker had an appreciation for those who did things with their own hands. She was hardworking that way and while Anakin saw her employment as a waitress to the pub below their apartment as borderline slavery, she seemed at peace with it.

He’d never even heard of Hogwarts until a man named Qui-Gon Jinn appeared on their humble doorstep with a huge stack of envelopes. He carried the airs of humility, wearing robes that looked much older than Anakin. His hair draped down his shoulders in a thick curtain that was fashioned half-up and half-down.

Anakin had to crane his head back to look him in the eyes, but he had a kind face that seemed easy to trust. Qui-Gon, he quickly discovered, was a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and came to deliver Anakin’s invitation in person.

“That’s a bit peculiar, isn’t it?” Shmi said warily. “Professors don’t normally make house calls.”

Qui-Gon had a twinkle in his eye as he nodded to her respectively. “Not typically, but we have attempted to send out Anakin’s letter all summer, but to no response.”

“We moved.” Anakin said and gave his mum a curious look. “There’s school for people like us?”

Shmi never took her eyes away from Qui-Gon and the two seemed to be speaking in a silent language that Anakin could not understand. He didn’t try to, because he immediately started buzzing around the room as rapidly as possible. This wasn’t just good news. It was marvelous news. This meant he wouldn’t have to go to that awful boy’s preparatory school in the fall. He could be amongst other wizards and learn how to harness the power within him.

In the midst of his scurrying around the room, he’d gotten so excited that he started to levitate off the ground. Neither adult noticed, even when Anakin drifted well above the impressive height that was Qui-Gon Jinn.

He overheard his mother softly ask, “Will he be safer there?”

“The safest thing we can do for him is to train him.” Qui-Gon said. “I know how much he means to you, Shmi.”

“Uh, a little help here?” Anakin interrupted.

Qui-Gon looked up and smiled at him, “How’s the weather up there?”

“Unsteady, sir. I don’t know how you manage it.” Anakin said.

A deep and hearty laugh broke across the room as he whipped a wand from the pocket of his robe. With the flick of the wrist and an utterance of “Descendo”, Anakin was placed back on his two feet once again. A part of him always liked when he floated off. He enjoyed being in the air.

Qui-Gon ruffled a hand through Anakin’s hair and looked to Shmi. There was more of that secret and silent adult-speak happening, but when Shmi looked to Anakin, he tried his best to convey that he wanted nothing more than to be amongst his own kind for a change. His little outbursts have been occurring more frequently and he was not sure how much more disappointment he could take.

To his surprise, she relented.

And so it was settled. Anakin was to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the fall- which was shockingly his mother’s alma mater. In his 11 years of living, she’d never mentioned it, just that she’d gone to school with other witches and wizards growing up and how she felt it was too isolated from the real world.

***

“Do I get a wand?”

“Yes, Ani.” She smiled lightly as they walked down the cobblestone streets of London. Cars and people buzzed throughout the town, each taking a slice of the rare sunny day. Normally, Anakin had zero interest in back to school shopping as it usually just included hand-me-downs from used outlets and the cheapest notebooks and pencils. Specifically, the kinds of pencils with erasers that didn’t function properly.

“Do you think I could have one like Qui-Gon’s?”

“The wand chooses the wizard.” She said, “Wands are unique. Just like people.”

He’d spent enough time in London to know for certain that there was not a wizard store at the market- not one that wasn’t mocking their culture with top hats and white rabbits. They passed familiar shops and boutiques until they made a turn onto Charing Cross Road and stopped in front of a charcoal pub with a faded sign hanging to the side. Anakin moved to continue walking as well, but Shmi was cemented to her position.

“Mum?”

She didn’t answer, only kept her eyes trained forward with a combination of knowing fear and unmovable determination. She took in a deep breath and reached for Anakin’s hand before leading him up to the large black door and pushing their way in.

It was equally unimpressive on the inside, resembling every other dive in England. Men and women huddled around their dimly lit booths and tables, trading barbs and sharing grub. He swore as they walked by a few, he heard his mother’s name leave their lips. Normally, a protective instinct would kick in, but his own beguilement was placed on halt. He was unsure what grabbing a beer was going to do for them, but then again, that was before the fabrics of reality opened before him.

His jaw dropped when a crummy hole-in-the-wall developed an actual hole in the wall and he suddenly stood on the bridge between parallel realities. There was the one at which he came from with its conformities, drab colors, and mundane days. What lay before him was anything but drab or mundane. While he’d never been here before, he automatically felt a singing rightness to it and found he could not bring himself to turn back- not even to express his sense of awe to his mother.

As if on a gravitational pull, he moved forward, his mother’s hand squeezing his own without a second thought. They drifted down the winding cobblestone street. It resembled the older paths in England with tight streets and turns as well as crowded rows of buildings. These, however, did not consist of standard row homes or shops, but an array of bright-roofed places of commerce.

His eyes were pulled everywhere, unsure whether to fixate on the joke shop or the menagerie, which had its windows lined with an assortment of obscure pets ranging from rats to little colorful wisps of fluff that he could not name.

There was a shop explicitly for selling cauldrons as well as robes, which were written on the list Professor Qui-Gon Jinn had given them before taking leave. Anakin had memorized it backwards and forwards and still hadn’t fully grasped the act of actually buying this kind of stuff.

Adults and their children appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the road and nobody blinked a second thought. Afterwards, they tucked their wands into their boot or pocket and went about their business with a casual air that only came with experience. They were all dressed very different from him- wearing long and vibrant robes as well as mismatched hats. No two were the same and while some of the younger crowd was more modernly dressed, most appeared to be in costume for a stage play. Anakin tried his best not to gawk at the strangers, who paid his shock no mind. He was supposed to be one of them, but while the rational part of him was trying to stop staring at wizards openly performing magic in public, the bigger part of him could only revel in the joy that came with not being the odd man in the room.

Various pleasant smells filled the open sky, which increased his sense of wonder. The street was lined with many different cafes and restaurants. The one that piqued his interest had a large light-up ice cream cone pinned on the roof. Just as his mouth began to water at the possibilities of how advanced magical ice cream could be, he was briefly tugged from his reverie by his mother, who took them aside and near the window of a different shop.

She knelt before him, a small and knowing smile playing at her lips, but also a bit of sadness that he could not understand. How could she ever want to leave this world? There was so much to explore and behold. What did their grubby flat above the old pub have that this place didn’t?

“Welcome to Diagon Alley. I know it’s a lot to take in.” She said and gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “And there will be time for that later.”

“And magical ice cream?” He tried. Though he wasn’t sure what was going to be so different about it.

She chuckled. “One rite of passage at a time.”

And with that, she stood up and nodded towards the shop behind him. “In there, I think you’ll find what you’ve been anticipating most. I’ll meet you back here with your textbooks. Do not wander, Ani.”

He heeded her advice and swung the wooden door open to reveal a dimly lit storage room that was stacked from floor to ceiling with shelves of long, thin boxes. Singular orbs of fading light dangled from the high ceiling and cast a yellow glow onto each shelf, though nothing worth noting leapt out at Anakin. Juxtaposed to the rest of the marketplace, it resembled a cluttered library rather than anything enticing. He couldn’t see how this would be what his mother believed was the most exciting place.

Well, aside from the gentleman positioned behind the desk, which sat next to a winding staircase leading to a closed door. At least, Anakin believed they were a gentleman, but it felt wrong to assume given they were clearly not human with a long snout, gray skin, and a very dinosaur-like shape. They wrote with a long feather in hand, clearly transfixed with whatever was being transcribed, and paid Anakin no mind.

“Um, excuse me?” Anakin spoke after the silence felt like it might overwhelm him.

Golden eyes lifted from the parchment to study him and Anakin swore he saw a thousand lifetimes in the span of seconds, but was also fairly certain he wasn’t under a spell. He couldn’t decide if they were kind or not- just all knowing yet totally unassuming.

“Yes, young man?” Their voice kept things ambiguous with a slight waver that gave away their age and a tone that was coated in gravel when they spoke.

“Um,” Anakin desperately wished his mother came in with him now, because he wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to be asking for from this creature. Said creature looked at him with expectant and timeless eyes, which eventually narrowed after considering Anakin.

“You’re new.” They said and got up from behind the desk, but not without the help of a cane and patience.

“Yes, sir.” He internally cursed for slipping, because really, he did not need to offend anyone on his first day in the wizarding world. While Anakin didn’t normally mince words, he hadn’t yet learned how to truly defend himself from this ancient wizard if that was required.

But, no rebuttal or offense came. Instead, this old man smiled and nodded before gesturing for Anakin to come closer. Despite previous anxieties, Anakin did as he was instructed.

“What a pleasure it is to share this moment with you.” He said and upon closer inspection, had many smile lines crinkled around the corners of his eyes. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Anakin Skywalker.”

“And what are you?”

“Uh, a person. What are you?”

This was hilarious to Tera Sinube, who laughed so hard that Anakin feared he was going to knock himself off balance somehow. He did not appear very physically stable as it was.

“Well, I’m a Cosian, but I’m also a person.” He said. “I was referring to your blood lineage. This can help when trying to pair wands to wizards.”

Anakin’s eyes felt like they were going to bulge out of his head, which provided more comedic content for the older wizard, who quite literally slapped his own knee at the confusion on Anakin’s face.

“You’re a wandmaker?” Anakin gaped, not caring about sounding foolish.

“Must be muggle-born.” Sinube smiled knowingly.

“Muggle?”

“Human.” He corrected, “My apologies. It’s what non-magical humans are referred to by wizards.”

While the statement held no edge beyond what naturally came with the tones of his voice, Anakin could not help feeling slightly bristled by the confusion.

“My mum’s a wizard, actually.” He said pointedly, “My father was a hum-muggle, though.”

He might as well get used to the verbiage.

Tera Sinube stared at him more carefully over his long snout and bit his lip in what appeared to be concentration.

“Skywalker.” He rolled the name around in his mouth and then his eyes widened a little before settling back to normal. “11 inches, Pear, with unicorn hair.”

“Huh?”

Sinube smiled and drifted to the back to pick up various packages from shelves. “That was your mother’s wand type. Your mother is Shmi Skywalker, right?”

“You know my mum?” Anakin asked.

“I’ve never forgotten a wand nor the wizard it chose.” He said with a firm nod.

“Wait, I don’t get to pick the one I want? Because I know this guy and his wand is super-”

“-The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Skywalker.” Sinube said firmly. “If it were backwards, I’d be terrified of the outcome. People have a tendency of prioritizing what they want rather than accepting what they need. And from that, we devolve into chaos.”

He wanted to push the point, because while arguing with a seasoned wandmaker about wands seemed foolish, Anakin really did enjoy the sleek fashion of Qui-Gon’s burgundy wand and believed that would most suit him too. However, Sinube did not give him much room to talk and instead laid out an array of thin boxes on the desk.

“I’ve been doing this for a very long time. Longer than I’d care to admit, actually, and I swear to you I’ve never come up with inconclusive results.”

Even as he said it, it felt like condemnation.

Because after a series of almost-disasters including, but not limited to: setting the entire wooden office on fire, turning Sinube into a Cosian Kebab, dissolving the floor into a gaping black hole beneath them, and literally turning the wooden wand into an angry python- it was easy to feel discouraged.

There were also wands that simply didn’t react to Anakin at all, which was even more disappointing. He had managed to let Sinube give him the opportunity to try Qui-Gon’s wand type on the off chance that his interests and needs coincided.

However, the 13” larch with dragon heartstrings acted as little more than a fancy stick in Anakin’s hand, much to his dismay and attempt at making it work.

“Ah, larch is a much sought-after wood.” Sinube said. “However, it is amongst the hardest to appease in terms of partnership. Its matches are typically hidden artifacts, so to speak, with untapped and unnoticed potential until the pair meets. Qui-Gon Jinn certainly matched that description as a young boy.”

Anakin wanted to further protest, but chose against it in favor of sulking. At this point, he cared a great deal less about matching Qui-Gon as he did finding a wand that would actually work with him at all.

“Now, now. One must not give up so easily.” Sinube placed a large hand on his shoulder. “I will have you know that some of the greatest wizards that ever lived were difficult to match. I was not alive in Headmaster Yoda’s time as a young wizard, but it evidently took days to find his wand.”

Anakin sighed, “I’m just so new to all of this, but I’ve always dreamed of it, if that makes sense.”

“It does and this moment will be a fond one if you let it happen.”

He tried to do just that and humored Sinube’s every whim of attempts and even climbed the ladder along the bookcase to grab more wands for him. It wasn’t until knocking a loose box from its hold on top of the bookcase and onto the floor- successfully rolling the wand across the room- that Anakin felt the room change.

Upon picking it up, the atmosphere transformed into one bathed in angelic light with a potent wind that swept all around them and took loose strands of parchment into the air. Anakin’s hand that gripped the wand grew impossibly warm, but never hot, and a strength seemed to manifest deep in the core of his being. Anakin’s soul felt complete where he never knew it was missing a piece.

Eventually, the lights dimmed and the heavens ceased singing and while he believed he’d been the only one doused in glory, it was clear from Sinube’s face that he’d bore witness to the whole spectacle. Perhaps, this was why he did what he did for so long.

“And there you have it.” The older wizard grinned. “An 11 ½” holly with dragon heartstrings. Known for handling well with the impetuous and the quick to anger as well as accompanying one with a large spiritual journey ahead of them.”

Anakin reverently ran his thumb across the surface of the hilt. How he could ever want anything else seemed ridiculous now. He finally tore his eyes away from his wand to acknowledge Sinube.

“Thank you, Mr. Sinube.” He said as he handed him the money his mother gave him- apparently it was the exact amount, “For being patient.”

“It was my pleasure, Mr. Skywalker. I just ask that you always extend yourself and others the same courtesy.”

“I will!” Though his rush to race out the door did not support the statement.

After Anakin left, Sinube’s eyes drifted to the wand that had been previously turned into a snake.

“Curious…” He said as he picked it up. Just as suspected, it was an elm wand, which was heavily believed to only react to wizards of pure-blood. Sinube, who was not human in any sense beyond spirit, hardly listened in on the political rubbish surrounding blood lineage. Still, it was odd that the elm wand reacted so.

***

Anakin dashed out of Sinube’s in such excited haste that he ran square into a family of wizards which knocked his wand from his hand and had it rolling onto the street. An array of passing feet accidentally kicked it along in transit and Anakin found himself scrambling on the ground in an ill-willed attempt to recover the wand he’d just struggled to meet.

“Excuse me! Sorry! Coming through!” He pushed his way through the crowd, never once taking his eyes off the ground and failing to really keep track where he was going.

Finally, his wand was spared from the stampede as it was all but launched into a darker passageway and down a series of steps. Anakin breathed out a sigh of relief and frustration as he descended to retrieve his wand. It wasn’t until he picked it up and determined that it was still usable did he realize he had absolutely no idea where he’d drifted.

Behind him, there was the pocket of light he’d come from while ahead only lay an oblique of shadows that extended deeper and deeper into a silent unknown. He could still feel the sunlight that shined bright on Diagon Alley at his back. However, he was inexplicably drawn forward as though he were being called. In fact, his feet seemed to move at their own accord, because despite his mind telling him otherwise, he followed the path of noir and gray stone until reaching a crossing.

Strange and unhappy creatures seemed to shuffle around one another without exchanging pleasantries or even acknowledging one another. Somehow, this part of town seemed even tighter than the rest of Diagon Alley. The shop owners were grim and threatened their patrons, though the patrons did not seem kind either. A few cast curious stares at Anakin as he walked by, but he did not want to be caught idle for too long and went the opposite direction, away from the quiet community of threatening onlookers.

As he drifted further along a narrow opening and towards a glowing green light, he felt a resounding cold settle in his bones without warning. His thoughts were screaming in meaningless questions as to why he was even here, but he resisted the urge to turn away. If he did, sleeping that night would be more impossible than enduring the chill that traveled up his spine at every distant echo.

He found himself clutching his wand instinctually, though he had no indication on how to use it. He slowly treaded closer to the ambient green hue that reflected off the stone wall. The anxiety that coiled in the pit of his stomach resembled that of being the follower and the followed. He was not sure which he was more fearful of in the present. When he rounded the corner, he realized it appeared to be from a wizarding shop, no less. While this should have caused relief, Anakin remained on high alert, noting that this shop did not resemble the others.

It was well-buried in the shadows, for one thing, and did not seem to be sought after despite its claim to sell antiquities. There were three front windows with a green light emanating off of them and highlighting the clear prevalence of skeletons throughout the store. He tried not to think too hard about their origin.

He squinted his eyes as he made out the sign on the front.

“Borgin and Burkes.” He murmured to himself.

He kept his steps silent and his breaths minimal, particularly when he realized he was not alone. Quickly, he rushed into the store in an attempt to avoid being seen by a large figure all dressed in black. The storeowner was clearly gone for lunch or other dealings, because he was not questioned when he slipped behind the counter after realizing the large presence was (hopefully unknowingly) following him inside.

There was a moment of silence beyond what Anakin could barely make out as the ignition of a flame.

He closed his eyes and wondered what his mother thought of his absence for the first time. What if she didn’t let him go to Hogwarts for wandering off? Surely, the rule of avoiding dark alleys applied to the wizarding world just as much as it did the real world. He felt remorse and regret, but didn’t even know where to begin on how to leave.

“Are you sure, Master?” A deep, but hushed voice asked.

“Yes. It is time to act. He arrives at Hogwarts this year.” The second voice sounded like more of a hiss than actual speech and crackled alongside the fire.

“There is much to prepare, then.”

Anakin peered his head from around the desk in a feeble attempt to catch a glimpse. Anyone that entered an empty shop to have a secretive conversation could not have been up to any good. What he was supposed to do about it, he was unsure.

The figure that had followed him into the shop was huge in stature- even larger and more dominant in appearance than Qui-Gon. He was dressed from head-to-toe all in black robes that were pulled over his head and shrouded him like a phantom.

The other man was not present in the physical sense, but judging from what Anakin could tell, was either in the fireplace or he was the fireplace. Green embers flicked in every direction, wild in abandon and enchantment as the phantom spoke down. Anakin wished he could get a better look, but thought better of it lest he reveal his presence.

“Just see to it that you are ready, Lord Tyranus. The Sith will rise once again if all goes according to plan.”

The phantom man knelt before the fireplace, as if to swear an oath. “I will not fail you, my Master.”

There was a long enough pause where Anakin briefly thought the conversation had ended, but a maniacal laugh rippled through the shop and he had to suppress the urge to whimper.

“Good.” He enunciated. “Until the darkest day at the darkest point.”

“Until then.”

“And by the way, my apprentice. You are not alone.”

Anakin’s eyes shot open and he burst into a blind sprint towards and through the door, narrowly avoiding a green shock of lightning that ricocheted where he’d previously been sat. Flames blew up behind him, lighting the dark path before him. He mindlessly chose his fate and sprinted down the cobblestone path to where he’d originally entered through. Well, it was where he believed he’d entered, at least.

His knees were almost hitting his chest. He was running so hard and determined to carry his strides as far as his little legs could take him. It finally felt as though his mind had lined up with his body and that every sense in him was on fire because of it. He could still smell the singed wood from the desk and hear the hushed tones of that dark voice.

There was so much he hadn’t gotten to do. He hadn’t seen Hogwarts or used his wand or made new friends. And for what? What did he have to say for drifting down strange roads that he had no place seeing?

He didn’t dare look behind him at risk of seeing what was approaching him, ready to swallow him up whole and never allow him to see or feel light ever again.

His mother would never get to see him graduate, which he knew was something she’d always hoped for him. She likely hoped it would be at a regular school, but would grow to be proud of him anyways. At the very least, he had intended on proving himself worthy of her devotion, even if she claimed he did not need to do such things. He would start by avoiding the dark side of Diagon Alley.

If he could only make it out alive.

He ran into a few angry and disgruntled characters, but none had the wits about them to stop him beyond shouting vulgar and threatening chants at him. He was numb to their words. He tried to listen for another presence running through them as well, but could only hear the steady pounding of his own heart and blood in his ears as well as the sound of his feet hitting the pavement.

A kaleidoscope of white light exploded before him as he’d finally wandered his way back to the open world. In a bout of momentary blindness he continued to plow straight ahead, colliding nearly instantly into an unyielding force. He found himself sprawled on his back staring at the very blue sky before he had a moment to catch himself.

Surely, he was caught and about to die in broad daylight. His wand fell from his hand and tears streaked his face. He didn’t even know where to begin in begging for his life. He wasn’t sure why he even went down that stupid pathway- just that it had called him. He felt he knew more now, though,and that it scared him.

His breathing grew heavy and frantic, but two firm hands settled on his shoulders- not his neck. He mustered up the courage to look up at his probable attacker and make peace with the fact that he’d lived an okay life thus far.

“Are you alright?” A voice- very different from the one before- asked him and the face matched the voice in its concern.

Instead of a hulking figure cloaked in black, there was a teenager- lean, medium-height, and light-skinned. Anakin would have thought he was an adult wizard by how he was dressed like a professor, in a pressed sweater-vest with a white button-up beneath, as well as ironed trousers and neatly combed auburn hair. However, his face was young and soft with caring blue-gray eyes. He held a certain air of authority and responsibility on him as though he’d been born shouldering the weight of the world.

Anakin sniffled and tried to come to terms with the fact that he was not about to die today and shrugged his shoulders in response.

The older boy’s eyes looked from where Anakin had come from in horror. “Why in the blazes were you coming from Knockturn Alley?”

He ran an arm along his face to get rid of any tears or snot that might have gone rogue in his hysteria.

“I-I got lost from my mum.” He said and hated how small he sounded, but he truly did not feel like explaining to a stranger why he’d decided to take a stroll into the ugly side of town.

“In Knockturn Alley?” He furrowed his brow, unwilling to be shaken. Clearly, this place had a bad reputation and Anakin could understand why.

“Why is that place even there at all?” Anakin complained. “I… I thought it might be a shortcut and… it wasn’t.”

The older boy’s conflicted expression was traded for one of sympathy and he simply gathered Anakin’s wand for him as well as his own dropped belongings before helping Anakin to his feet.

“Well, no harm done, right?”

He wasn’t so sure, but he nodded all the same.

“Let’s get you back to your mum, okay? It can be dangerous around here for a first-timer and I’m sure she’s worried sick.”

He appreciated not being confused for a muggle this time, though this kid struck him as a seasoned member of the wizarding community. Even still, after what he’d just seen, he was happy to have the company. He didn’t miss the disgusted look he shot back to Knockturn Alley over Anakin’s shoulder.

“Do you go to Hogwarts?” Anakin asked.

“Why, most of everyone here either has been, will be, or is a student at Hogwarts.” He said and scanned the crowd. “I’m entering my fifth year.”

Anakin sighed, “It’ll be my first.”

“I would have never guessed.” Though there was an obvious edge of sarcasm to his tone, which was a welcome surprise as he seemed regularly quite stiff. “I see you got your wand already.”

“From Tera Sinube’s. Just like everyone else, I’m guessing.” Anakin said, but did not miss the way his new companion flinched ever so slightly when he’d said that. There was a wand peeking out of his pocket, so it wasn’t that he simply didn’t possess one. He tried to think nothing of it and move on, taking notice instead of the button that sat atop the books that the older boy carried.

“Do all fifth years get badges that say they’re ‘perfect’ on them?”

He chuckled. “It says ‘prefect’, actually. It’s a big honor at Hogwarts. I essentially was elected by the Headmaster and Head of House to uphold the code of ethics at the school.”

“So…” Anakin paused. “You’re a hall monitor.”

He thought about that for a moment. “Is that what muggles call it?”

“Yeah, mate. It’s a pretty geeky position actually. The hall monitor at my school got so many wedgies that they had to get his briefs surgically removed.”

He grimaced. “Yes, well, bullies are no strangers to Hogwarts either, but I’d like to think at least some of them heed to our words and authority. So, if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out.”

Anakin smiled. “Thanks. Trouble usually finds me pretty quick so I’ll need the connections.”

The Prefect smiled. “I can see that.”

***

By the time the Prefect had finally reunited Anakin with his mother, the sky above them began collecting orange and pink hues to resemble a mosaic painting. Anakin’s mood had brightened substantially since exiting the horrid Knockturn Alley and was all the more relieved to see that his mother didn’t appear too angry with him for disappearing.

Because he was still the kind of guy that liked hugging his mum, he ran to her all the same and enveloped her in a tight hug that she knelt to meet him for.

“I got lost.” He said, voice muffled by her shoulder.

“I know it’s all bright and new to you, but this place isn’t all rainbows and sunshine, Ani.” She sighed and stroked his hair. “You have to be mindful of your surroundings.”

Anakin understood what she meant more than he could say right now. For some reason, he felt he shouldn’t relay what had happened to his mother. Not only because it would upset her, but because thinking back on it sent a cold chill down his spine. He simply nodded in agreement and his mother finally acknowledged the young chaperone, who awkwardly stood off to the side.

“Thank you very much for seeing my son safely back to me. I hope he didn’t cause you any trouble.” She smiled warmly.

The older boy waved a hand of nonchalance, though his stiff posture didn’t quite sell the casual vibe he was going for. “Oh, no trouble at all. I was glad to be able to see Diagon Alley through the eyes of a newcomer.”

Anakin beamed. “He showed me all around! Mum, can I get an owl?”

Shmi chuckled. “Later. We must be getting home before it grows dark. I’ve got a late shift tonight at the pub.”

He slumped his shoulders a little bit. “You always have work.”

She sighed and gently pushed some hair out of his face. “I do what I must so we can have a nice life.”

Anakin wanted to say something along the lines of their lives not being so nice thus far, but he knew it would hurt his mother’s feelings and despite his disappointment, did not want to do that.

The Prefect smiled. “I better be off, myself. I’ll see you at school!”

He waved. “Yeah! I’ll see you then! Thank you!”

Shmi smiled down at him. “At least you’re already making friends. What was his name?”

Anakin blanked. “Oh… I don’t know! He’s a prefect though.”

“He saved you and you didn’t get his name?” She asked.

“He didn’t save me. I had it under control.” He puffed out his chest, even if deep inside he knew that was not correct. “But I was distracted. Hey, look at my wand!”

#the clone wars #tcw #Obi-Wan Kenobi #Anakin Skywalker #Qui-Gon Jinn #Shmi Skywalker #star wars #prequel trilogy #harry potter au #au #magical forces au

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glimmerglanger · 4 years

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AUgust (5) - As We Knew It

Written for day 5 of AUgust (post apocalypse). Obi-Wan/Ventress (I told you I was doing ALL my Obi-Wan ships this month. We’re on number three). Set not in a galaxy far, far away. A surprising amount of homesteading. Mentions of cannibalism.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Obi-Wan had no clear idea of how long he’d been alone when he came upon the slouched body. At first he assumed the figure was dead. Most things he found in the wastes were. He reined in his horse, anyway, patting Ben on the neck as he slid off of his back, looking around carefully.

Moving without care tended to have poor results. Obi-Wan drew the blade at his waist as he approached the shape, leaving his gun holstered for the moment. Gunshots were so loud, after all. They tended to get all kinds of attention and so a bullet was only an option when all other options ran out.

The shape stirred not as Obi-Wan approached and knelt beside it. It was wrapped in a filthy cloak. Obi-Wan lifted the edge of the fabric cautiously; hard to say what could have been hidden beneath, and, really, he knew he should have just left well enough alone, but…

But, there was still something in him that could not pass by and ignore someone who might require aid. Perhaps he carried too much of the Order with him, even still. He pulled the cloak back, revealing a woman’s face, gaunt and with sunken cheeks. Her eyes were closed, but breath still moved in and out between her cracked lips.

Obi-Wan crouched beside her for a moment, sighed, and said, “Alright.”

The woman did not stir when he lifted her. She barely weighed anything, all bone and spare flesh. He frowned and carefully slung her over Ben’s back. Ben whickered a bit, shifting at the unfamiliar burden and - perhaps - the smell. Obi-Wan shushed him, took the reins, and turned them back, towards home.

He’d have to continue his explorations on a different day.

Obi-Wan had found the little cabin he’d made his home. It had been abandoned when he found it, the roof coming down and the windows broken out. He’d done what he could to repair it and then he’d fortified it as much as he could.

He led Ben back to the little corral when some grass still grew and took the woman off his back. “I’ll be back to sort you out,” he said, carrying the woman into the little cabin. She looked like she needed medical care more than Ben needed a brushing down.

He barely remembered how to tend other people; he’d been alone a long, long time. But some things came back, he supposed. He laid the woman out and got a fire going, pumped some water and boiled it, gathering what bandages he had.

The woman was covered in tattoos. Plenty of folk had taken to marking themselves, after things fell apart. Ways to identify what people they belonged to, ways to state that they had a place. Obi-Wan had no tattoos. He had no people.

Hers, he recognized.

He’d hard run-ins with the Night Sisters before the Order burned. Before he lost everything again, for the second time in his life, to the man who wanted to be Emperor of the ruined remains of their world.

He cleaned the woman’s injuries - most of them were old and healing badly - and mended her as best he could. He tried to get her to swallow some water, wondering if she’d ever wake up, and covered her with a blanket. And then he went and tended to Ben.

The woman woke sometime in the night. Obi-Wan jerked from sleep to the sound of movement in his cabin, reaching for the knife by his pillow even as he sat up. He managed to surprise the woman, who had risen from the cot and was moving towards him, her expression grim and furious.

“It’s alright,” Obi-Wan said, his voice rough from lack of use, “I’m--”

“Where is this place?” she demanded, scowling around the cabin. She was shivering, he noticed. Or just shaking, all over. “Why did you bring me here?”

“It’s my home. And I brought you because you were hurt,” he said, slowly. She reminded him of the wolves who had passed by his cabin the previous fall, lean and with a terrible hunger in their eyes, a gaze that drifted towards his neck at all times, considering.

He’d had to kill two of them to get them to move on.

He had nightmares about it, still, sometimes.

“Right,” she said, with a sharp little laugh. “Well I’ll be leaving, now, and if you try to stop me…” she scowled at him, fierce for all that he was pretty sure she was one wrong move away from falling over.

“Fine,” he said, shrugging and gesturing at the door. “Not like I wanted to share my breakfast, anyway.”

She stopped, looking at him out of the corners of her pale eyes. “You have food?” she asked, and he thought about Ben, who had been all ribs and too-thin skin when Obi-Wan found him, trapped in a barn he could not escape, slowly starving and--

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said. “And you’re welcome to some, if you just sit down.”

She glared for another moment and then, slowly, backed up and sat back on the cot. She watched him the entire time he fixed a bit of gruel, wound tight, as though she intended to spring onto his shoulders and snap his neck at any moment.

“I’m Obi-Wan,” he said, when he handed the bowl over. He vaguely recalled that you were supposed to introduce yourself, when you met other people.

“I don’t care,” she said, curling around the bowl and shoving the mush into her mouth. She didn’t ask what was in it. Generally, it was best not to.

“Why are you doing all of this for me?” the woman demanded, at the end of the day. Obi-Wan had helped her warm up enough water to fill the little tin tub he’d scavenged a few months back and waited outside with Ben while she bathed. He’d tended her wounds again afterwards, and split the rabbits he’d managed to catch in snares the previous day.

She watched him cautiously with grease still smeared on the corner of her mouth. He shrugged. “Would you rather I not?” he asked, working on cleaning the skins. Last winter had been cold. Rabbit skins weren’t much, but every bit helped to make warmer clothes or, at the least, coverings for his bed.

She was quiet for a long time, for so long he thought she would not speak again, and then she said, “Asajj.”

He glanced up at her. “What?”

She had both her arms crossed over her chest and was glaring at the far wall. “My name,” she said. “Is Asajj.”

He nodded, bending back over his work. “Nice to meet you,” he said, vaguely recalling that as something they used to say, before.

She snorted. “So civilized,” she said, sharp, and stood, walking out the door. He didn’t ask where she was going. He had a feeling, in his gut, that she was going to be coming back.

Asajj’s injuries healed slowly. She took over bandaging them herself, after that first day. She said, as she finished wrapping the wounds, “You really just… live here? Alone?”

Obi-Wan shrugged, looking across his cabin. “I prefer the quiet,” he said. He knew it was, technically, safer to fall in with one of the larger groups in the area. But he’d had a group, once. People he cared about, people who meant everything to him and--

And they were all dead, now, slaughtered and cut down like animals due to a betrayal from within. He swallowed. He had no desire to join another group, to swear allegiance to anyone, to trust and grow close to others. “It’s better to be alone,” he added, quietly.

She leaned back, looking at him, and said, “Why’d you rescue me, then, Mr. Civilized?”

He shrugged. “I could hardly let you die, could I?”

She stared at him, narrowing her eyes, and said nothing.

“You’re a Night Sister,” Obi-Wan said, after Asajj has spent almost a week in the cabin. Her wounds were healing well and some of the shadows under her eyes were going away. She paused in the middle of pacing and frowned over at him.

“I was,” she said. “Once.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “I was part of the Order.”

She snorted, her mouth curling into a sharp edged smile. “Of course you were,” she said. “Children playing at being knights. I should have known.”

He blinked, thinking about all the men and women he had known. The children born after the end of the world. The way they’d tried to make things better. The way - the way his closest friend had turned on them, and--

Obi-Wan shook his head. “I suppose,” he said, looking for dry distance with his tone, “that playing at being witches and finding magic here in the ruin of the world was better.”

He expected her to snap back. She generally did. He’d found that he liked having someone around to argue with. It was nicer than having just Ben to talk to, who never said anything back, though Obi-Wan got the feeling he understood more than he let on.

Asajj froze in place, instead, her hands curling to fists. When she spoke, her voice was quiet. “I guess we were no better. We probably fought one another before, you and I. The Sisters spared no love for the Order.”

He nodded. He’d been involved in more than one squirmish with the Night Sisters. It seemed far away now. In another life, long ago. He had so many prior lives. “Probably,” he said, and tried to flash her a smile. “Fortunate for you that you didn’t manage to kill me, then.”

“I suppose so,” she said, and spared him a smile that was not so sharp-edged. They lapsed into a silence that she broke, eventually, as he was gathering his blankets to sleep. “The Empire,” she said, softly, in the dark, “they killed all of my sisters. I heard they did for the Order, too.”

Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut, his throat growing tight. He could still remember the bodies of the dead. He could still remember Anakin’s maddened eyes, before Obi-Wan had--

He rolled to face the wall. “Yes,” he said. “They did.”

It was nothing but a surprise when she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you doing?” Asajj asked, one evening as Obi-Wan sat outside the cabin with the rooster he’d managed to find wandering through the trees earlier in the day. He looked up at her, scowling.

“Plucking this bird,” he said, blowing feathers away. “What’s it look like?”

“It looks,” she said, waving him away and taking the bird’s carcass in hand. “Like you’re making a mess. This is how you dress fowl.” And he watched her as she calmly and methodically stripped away it’s feathers, leaving them with something they could, with luck, eat until they felt full.

She gave him a smug look when she finished, and he said, “Well, I had no idea you were so good at handling co--”

“I thought you were a gentleman,” she interrupted, narrowing her eyes, and he flashed her a smile. They came easier these days, he’d found, to his surprise.

“Handling cooking,” he said, rising to his feet and taking the bird from her. “I’d have let you do more to help, if I’d known.”

“You really are a gentleman,” Asajj said that night, making it sound like an accusation. “Aren’t you?”

Obi-Wan blinked over at her in the dim light of the cabin. They’d let the fire burn, just a little. It was getting colder at night, already. “Pardon me?” he asked, tired from the long...years that had marched along, one after another, since the world ended.

She made a frustrated sound, sighing, and he heard her shove her blankets away, climbing off of the cot that he’d given to her since her arrival. “What are you doing?” he asked, listening to her pad across the floor, pushing up on his elbows as she grabbed his blankets and tugged them off.

“What I should have done since the day I got here,” she said, and he wondered, for a moment, if she intended to kill him, before she stepped over him and sank down against his body, all in one smooth, angry movement.

She put her hands in his hair and kissed him like she intended to argue about it. She pulled back after a moment to say, “Unless you have a protest.”

His hands had settled at her hips - still so sharp - and blinked at her, shaking his head. “Oh, by all means,” he said, feeling her breath on his skin. “What’s mine is yours.”

She snorted, hand sliding down his chest, past the waistband of his pants. She murmured, “Let’s see about that.”

And it had been… a very long time since anyone had kissed him, since anyone had pressed against him and moaned into his mouth. Some things, it turned out, you didn’t forget. He drew her closer, letting her swallow his groan as they sank back against the floor.

They did not get to sleep for some time, but, when they did, at least they were both sharing the bed.

Asajj made no secret of the fact that she planned to leave once she’d fully recovered, not even after they started sharing a bed. Obi-Wan made no attempt to convince her otherwise. He’d nursed an owl back to health the previous spring and it had flown away when it’s wing healed, as well.

He grew to enjoy having her around, her snippy acidity and the buried, sharp sense of humor beneath that. He took what comfort he could in her touch, in the warmth of another body by his in the night, someone else around the cabin to keep the watch. But he worked not to grow too attached to her, knowing she would leave, likely with the turn of the season.

He started setting aside extra food, anyway. Just in case she got stuck through the winter.

She left before the cold set in, without so much as a goodbye. Obi-Wan sighed when he woke to find her gone, scrubbed his face, and nodded. He went to tend to Ben and found, perhaps unsurprisingly, that Asajj had taken him, too.

The attack came a few days after Asajj left. Obi-Wan had dealt with occasional raiders before. His life in the time before had… uniquely qualified him to deal with them. He’d been very good at fighting, at killing, even before the world fell apart.

But they’d never come in such force, before. A dozen people came in the night and he killed them. Obi-Wan did use his pistol in the fight - it was an emergency - and when it was done, there were bodies all around him and he was shaking, bleeding heavily from injuries to his shoulder and leg.

He swayed on his feet, spitting blood, and that was when the second wave came.

He had just enough time to swear before they were on him.

Obi-Wan woke up hanging upside down, his head one solid ache of pain and his hands numb. He blinked, his vision blurry and swimming. He smelled smoke in the air and could hear the loud noise of many people talking all at once, some singing.

The people who’d taken him had removed his clothes, leaving his skin exposed to the cold air. They’d also, by the feel of it, scrubbed him. He groaned, trying to shake sense back into his head and sending himself spinning slowly around by his ankles.

The revolution made nausea explode through his gut but it also gave him a look around. He appeared to be in some kind of metal room. There were wooden tables set all around, stained with blood and--

And there were ever so many knives. Large ones. There were bones in one corner. Obi-Wan didn’t have to work hard to identify them. He’d buried so many people in the last few years, trying to give the dead some peace.

Cannibals, he thought, the feeling of numbness spreading. Well, at least Asajj had taken Ben away. At least they weren’t going to eat his horse. He held that thought close as darkness came up behind his eyes again.

The next time Obi-Wan woke up, it was to screaming. So much screaming. He groaned, blinking his eyes open to find fires everywhere. He could see people running back and forth, in some kind of panic. He wondered what was going on as a figure slipped through the door to his little holding cell.

He narrowed his eyes, his probable concussion and inverted perception arguing with a gut instinct that said he recognized the figure. He slurred, as they approached, “Asajj?”

“Sh,” she hissed at him, heading towards the wall and the rope tied off there. She grunted as she took his weight, lowering him down. He tried to push up, but his arms were numb and he fell back, panting.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, as she crouched over him, slicing through the ropes around his ankles.

“Rescuing you,” she snapped, “what does it look like?” She grabbed him, pulling him to his feet. She had a wiry strength to her, but still swayed under his weight. He shook his head, making his legs work through force of will.

“But,” he said, rasping, “you left.”

She was quiet, for a moment, dragging him forward with a scowl. “I did,” she said, finally. “And, curse you, I barely made it a day before I had to come back. And I found you missing. You’re lucky I could find you.”

He coughed out a laugh, watching the cannibal camp burn as she wove them through it, leading them past the madness, out into the cool crispness of the night. “I am,” he said, taking some of his weight off of her shoulders. He said, as they limped along, “You stole my horse.”

She scoffed. “I brought him back, too,” she said, gesturing forward, where Ben waited, tethered to a branch. “Now get on the damnable beast and let’s go home.”

#AU_gust_2020 #post apocalypse au #obi-wan x asajj #mentions of cannibalism #banter #implied happy ending?#animals love obi-wan

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theveryworstthing · 5 years

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hello everyone, here are some very rough sketches of hare Messenger/caravan friends. i wanna draw more of these because i’ve finally settled on a general design and now i’m ready to get wacky with them.

but first.

it is time for lore.

this isn’t everything i want to say about hares and caravans and their relationship with rabbits and the above ground world but i figure it’s a start. so welcome to Hare Caravans: a short history intertwined with landscaping and postal work.

The beginnings of a journey: staying above ground where all the things that want to kill you are is good actually.

The first hare leveret was born at about the same time as the first rabbit kit. Some say that the two litters were only a nest apart, or that they were even reared together. No one is quite sure of the exact times and distances though because the only people there were the Mothers, who are all gone now, and a few couple minute old gods, who while gods, were just dumb babies who had no idea that any of this would ever matter in the future.

The main thing of importance is that in the beginning there were rabbits and hares in the same general area dealing with the same general existence bullshit and for some reason instead of wising up and going underground like the rabbits, the hares decided (in what had to be a blinding species-wide wave of spite and wanderlust because let’s be real they are EVEN TWITCHIER than rabbits) to stay above ground,learn to do sick stunts, and make the world Deal With Them.

Both rabbits and hares are naturally very quick on their feet but hares are faster and ridiculously acrobatic. They were able to live above ground on the island for so long because even though they still got got every now and then, they were able to juke their way to survival most of the time. But this made hares very solitary. They’re a little more resistant to fear death but it’s still a thing that happens and stress took less hares than you’d think but more hares than you’d hope. They didn’t have the guaranteed safety of the rabbits’ warrens to relax in and it’s hard to build a stable community when a group = a delicious easy target for predators. That’s where the Messengers came in.

The Messengers At first they were merely a small guild of traveling hares that worked as sort of builders/landscapers/proto-postalworkers. Everything about them was kept pretty hush hush and their founder, a tall albino hare who even then everyone suspected had been doing this job way before this job had a name, wasn’t much into discussing the business to those they didn’t deem prospective hires. This made them one of, if not the first, secret society on the island.

The Messengers would collect and deliver letters, small items, and general news from different parts of the island, packing their cargo on quick beetle steads and leading them through the night to distant territories. When they got to a new area they set up cryptic signs and elaborately camouflaged tents that served as pop-up meeting places for whoever was passing through. They were hardworking, crafty, sleep deprived, respectful of their clients’ privacy, and their slogan: ‘I might only be stopped by death and then I only might be’ has persisted as an empowering and slightly threatening mantra for the hares, rabbits, and now vultures who continue in their stead. Truly strong roots for modern island derived postal work.

The Outposts Now when I said those first Messenger-built tents were camouflaged I mean that they were functionally, borderline rage inducingly, invisible. Messengers would arrange entire false landscapes around their tents and the tents themselves were made of thick woven mats covered in layers of cultivated moss, fungus, and various bits of predator-offensive local vegetation for an optimal ‘this is totally a normal danger bush please piss off’ vibe. Some of their later outposts(where modern ‘postal’ work gets its name)included hidden doorways on seemingly regular boulders, clusters of reeds hiding entrances to submerged airtight rooms, and that one open grove near the Center that looked like nothing until you inevitably walked smack into an expertly painted wall like a dang cartoon character. That was the Head Messenger’s favorite outpost (and the most entertaining to watch from afar).

Most of these places got wrecked by time but some people say that the grove outpost still exists, much to the irritation of local postal workers. This is just an urban legend. Their official stance is that the place was destroyed in a storm shortly after the hares all left the island, and a search of the grove certainly supports their exasperated claims that nothing is there anymore. But there are also no ruins of any sort in the grove and to this day the rare rabbit or vulture will come back from their travels with stories about face planting into air and discovering a weird old building that contained nothing but a single black envelope. Again, the island postal service says these are all just urban legends and nothing more.

But also, maybe just keep away from the area and if you see any black envelopes please contact your nearest postal worker asap.

The Signs Since the outposts were so hidden, if you weren’t lucky enough to stumble into one or you didn’t notice the appearance of a New Bush, then you had to look for the signs. A stack of flat stones or a single hare antler tipped with black were signals that a Messenger was visiting. These items would always be at the base of a tree or some other large immovable object where the Messenger would use paint made with Medic’s Eye fungi spores to draw directional symbols that would light up momentarily when the surface was tapped. Before they left the Messenger would always recollect and scrub away their sign materials. Just leaving up signs was irresponsible, as future Messengers might set up in a different spot and conflicting signs would be confusing. Also, bandits might use abandoned signs to lure victims into ambushes. Very few bandits ever had the chance to do this since Messengers were diligent about erasing their signs and very few of them escaped the Messengers if they found out which hooligans had betrayed the people’s trust in mail, but still.

The birth of caravans and getting creative At the outposts, hares would collect their mail, talk amongst themselves, and generally spend leisure time with their brethren without the threat of danger. The outposts were (purposefully) hard to find, only stayed open for a day or two at most, and the messengers had a serious lack of chill due to their busy schedules, but people really loved them. As interest in these meeting spots grew trade increased, people grew closer(within reason, hares were still real solitary at that point), and eventually caravans were created to make setting up these pop-up marketplaces/communities easier.

Of course by this point the safest spots had small permanent outposts with a rotating staff of guard hares (and a few adventurous rabbits). But hares were too twitchy to leave whole towns just…there. Out in the open. Permanently. A house can’t run. Or at least most houses can’t run. Who in their right mind would want long term shelter you can’t pick up and take with you? But a vehicle? Strap a streamlined wagon to a strong beetle, or better yet get a walking worm that can really sprint, and now you’re in business(some of the most beloved hare fables are about a witch who lived in a walking worm that ran around on pillyki legs). And so these hidden outposts became the center of constantly fluctuating camouflaged towns made of caravans.

The wagons and worms that inhabited these towns were really…a sight. Of course they were all the equivalent of speedwalking shrubbery, but the variation! The ingenuity! The application of literally whatever they found while rambling around! Closer looks revealed dead branch coverings held up by years of interlocking shed antlers and tied together with cast off scraps of green fabric that were coated with wax and artfully styled into very convincing leaves. Plants with woven roots for floors and branches for roofs were kept on shallow platforms of soil and molded into tiny but ever growing shacks. Walking worms resembling rotted logs filled fine garden lounges and stages and libraries and laundry rooms tiled with smooth bits of broken pottery. In a small tent that from the outside looks like three sticks and an unfortunate amount of wolf poop, a midwife helps deliver three healthy leverets. A wonderland made of pure natural beauty, art, and a little teeny tiny bit of collected travel garbage. Magnificent.

It really is too bad that most of the more fragile ones didn’t survive the trip to the mainland. Being successfully converted into boats was just not in the cards for them. Silver lining? They got to re-design them all over again with mainland materials. So even though true Island Vehicles are rare now they’re all just as funky.

The Connections Caravan communities really changed hare society. They had always had culture and stories and art, but it was hard to enjoy any of that with frickin’ wolves and owls on their heels 24/7. While families with younger children or disabled members traveled together, it was just so much safer to stay in small distant groups if you stayed in a group at all. This meant very little non trade or procreation mingling. The relative safety of the caravan towns gave birth to a wave of new art and culture exploration since people now had time, space, and input from so many new friends with similar interests in the same place. It’s amazing what you can do when you aren’t constantly running on survival mode and even though they had had access to friendly rabbit spaces before, it just wasn’t the same. Soon entire droves of hares started moving together in very loose communities. Wagons or worms never really right next to each other but all heading in the same direction on their own paths and coming back together at the end of their journeys. Close enough to run to a neighbor if need be but never clumped up. As these droves solidified, they each developed distinct new customs and skills, and the connections between members became as strong as any warren.

These connections are especially apparent in an old practice called Path Merging. Originally only done to seal peace treaties after the rare violent cross-caravan spat but now a common practice, if a single leveret is born (a rarity) they are paired with a single leveret of a similar age from a neighboring ally caravan and raised together. The pair travels back and forth all of their young lives, first with their mothers and then alone, living in their home caravans for different parts of the year. A few of these pairs stay together forever and some only part ways when they start their own families but ideally they at least make it to twenty years before calling for a separating ritual for the whole deal to be Solid. Similar to a diplomatic betrothal but based more on creating lifelong partners of any relationship type over setting up a marriage, this fostering of an intense bond from being the only true constants in each other’s lives is a show of good will and connection between their people. In a way they come to embody the essence of their community and as single litters are seen as a sign of pure hare independence and the old ways of their lost island home, these children are very powerful symbols.

It also means surefire preferential trading and aid from what are pretty much blood-contract bound allies.

These leverets are supposed to be raised like any other, but may receive a little special treatment in times of hardship to prove one caravans’ dependability to the other. A pair being returned in bad condition or with tales of abuse can start or further irritate conflicts. A falling out between the bonded pair can also be disastrous but it happens. You usually have no idea if babies will just super hate each other once they learn what hate is! Or what life in general will throw at you! If everything else is fine but they’re just not compatible people then after a while the caravan elders from both sides will come together and amicably agree to separate them. Although if one deeply wrongs or injures the other there can be some…dire consequences for the offending party that can splash back on their community depending on the situation. Hares almost always avoid war, but they’re real big on justice.

Despite this intense ritual, hares are still hares. They travel together now but they’re still kind of solitary creatures. Caravans are still pretty spaced out affairs, relying on radios and slime mold compasses to keep in touch when someone needs to wander away from the group for a bit. Outside of the usual life threatening issues, they’re not really worried about wandering the untamed mainland alone.

It’s not really a big deal when you have somewhere to come back to.

#rabbits of downtrodden #long post #hares #walking worm #bugs

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inazumafocus · 5 years

Text

A sanctuary of eternal love

AFUHIRU MONTH

DAY THREE: In the language of flowers RATING: Green TAGS: major character death (i’m sorry), fae!afuro, human!hiruma, secret crush AO3 LINK: HERE

Once upon a time, just outside the city's walls, was a forest. Local people used to tell stories about the creatures living inside, dangerous and alluring, deadly and beautiful. Creatures no one could resist. Then there was a man in the local market, smiling at everyone who passed by his shop and offering free sample of his sweets. You were not to eat them if you wanted to live, or so they whispered to young children in the streets. The man was a fae, one of the creature of the forest, who gained human form in order to steal kids away and eat them for dinner, but no one could chase him away. Every once in a while somebody tried, but the man just smiled and all the will of that person would vanish, making them feel weak and accept the fae's sweets. Those were never seen again.

"Beware of the enchanted forest, younglings, for there is no coming back once a fae lays its eyes on you"

That was what every teacher, adult or grown up would say again and again to scare kids away from the city's walls. And it was what Hiruma Yoichi had grown up to as well. Little did everyone know, that the blue eyed child had a different destiny wrote in the stars.

He must've been around the age of ten when he first ventured in the market on his own, the voice of the orphanage caregiver now lost somewhere far behind him. It was already closing hour, the sun was setting, painting everything with its warm orange light before disappearing completely behind the walls and all the shops were now closed, letting him run around freely with no adult to stop him by his slender arm. He loved it. Everything was quiet and mysterious, casting shadows on the walls that looked like strange creatures to his curious eyes. He chased down a beautiful red cat down some alleys, lifting up puffs of dust with his consumed leather shoes and finding himself on the main street. The cat was gone, the road deserted. He was about to turn around and find the screaming caregiver, since the light was almost out, when a rich chocolate smell tickled his nostrils. Hiruma followed the smell, mouth already watering and tummy aching in anticipation and when he looked up there was an abandoned cake on a bare table on the side of the road. There was no one in sight. Strange. A part of brain tried to remind him that it was unadvised to eat things we don't know the origin of, it was like taking candy from a stranger. Also, who was the idiot who left freshly baked cakes around? ... But no one ever let him had chocolate back at the orphanage, and surely just a quick bite wouldn't hurt him, right? His tummy agreed. But by the time he got his first small bite, the taste of it made his eyes shine and hunger grew stronger, he couldn't help but eat it all. He looked around, scared someone might have seen him eating a whole cake by himself in a matter of seconds and as he brushed some crumbles away from his cheeks, he could've sworn there was a shadow smiling just outside his field of view. Very strange. That night his stomatch did not ache, so he simply forgot about the suspiscious looking cake and began to live his life as if faint voices didn't suddenly bagan to speak wherever he went. It was probably just his imagination.

At the age of fourteen the townspeople sent him away. Bringer of misfortune, that's how they had called him for the past four years, because everywhere he went, soemthing bad happened. May it be a vase shattering right after he touched it, kids falling and breaking their legs if they bumped into him or just about anything even remotely bad, everythig had been tied down to him. They had nothing against him to burn him down for witchcraft, but when he tried desperately to tell them it was the small voice's fault and not his, everyone knew there was the faeries curse at work. He was marked and could no longer stay there. So they abandoned him, closing the door shut to never open it again. There was nothing but forest in front of him and not even a path to follow and maybe reach another city. He had no other choice but to venture inside, eyes shifting and adjusting to the dark as the sun was setting low and the trees let no light filter between their ancient branches. The voices were still there, higher, closer than ever before and for the first time he was scared. They were laughing, snickering when he flinched for a broken twig or a rustling of leaves. As time went by, he grew scared and lonlier, walking in the dark with no idea of where he was going as he kept moving forward, testing the ground for solid footing. He surely didn't want to fall into a bottomless pit and he really hoped there weren't snakes out there... By the time his legs had started to feel numb his heart had sank into despair, he was ready to fall to his knees and ask the faeries to just eat him up quickly, for he was tired of the voices all around him and in the back of his head speaking without him being able to understand. It was in that moment, when he had leaned on a trunk, that the melody started. Soothing, Alluring, It made his heart flutter. He had to follow it. The voices sounded angry, they tried to talk louder but Hiruma's ears were only for that gentle chant. He didn't even know how lucky he was, for the trunk were he intended to rest upon was home to a poisonus spider... Only when dawn came, the voice stopped and he woke up from the enchantment that gave him enough strength to walk all night long. Suddenly, he dropped to his knees, weak and tired, body shaking with fatigue and shadows of fears clutched on his heart. With heavy eyelids he looked around, wondering where the sweet voice went and why did it left him alone again. There were flowers all over him, he could barely see their shapes but they looked like small cushions and he so desperately needed a bed.

"Sleep, lost child, and have plenty of rest. For no harm will reach you here"

And so he did, heartened by that voice speaking to him in a tender whisper against his ear. He fell face on the ground with a faint smile, hidden by the white field of carrot's flowers.

A melody woke him up and for a second he thought he was still sleeping. Right there, standing on top of his nose, was a very tiny person, but instead of jumping up with fear and disbelief, his heart felt safer than ever. He blinked twice, making sure he wasn't actually hallucinating because of some poison hidden in the flower buds.

"You finally decided to woke up, child, I was starting to worry"

Definitely not an hallucination. Hiruma cleared his throat, trying to look at the tiny creature without hurting his eyes too much in the process.

"Uhm, not to be rude but, are you a fae?"

The thing crooked its head, letting tiny long blonde hair fall over as he looked at him with a small smile.

"Do I look like a troll?"

"NO! No that was... that was not what I meant but- then why did you... help me" he paused, looking around at the flower field from below "it was you, wasn't it?"

A small chuckle like tiny cheerful bells filled the fresh morning air and he blushed as the fae rose up with its thin wings

"Not all fae are ill willed, I'm a Queen Anne's Lace solitary fae, or a carrot one for short, and wherever there's a carrot flower there's a sanctuary for the needy. You looked like you needed a helping hand, was I wrong?"

It was now far too close to his face and Hiruma could clearly see its shiny red eyes and its curved up lips. He smiled as well, a bit awkwardly as he sat up legs crossed, cleaning himself from the dirt.

"I was, well, I still am I think? I have nowhere to go and... I have been hearing voices for the past four years, but now they only grow stronger in the forest"

The fae smile wavered as it kept flying in front of him

"You ate some of our food outside our kingdom and the others got interested in you, now you can hear them more as you stepped into it like they wanted you to-"

Silence fell upon them as Hiruma remembered of that strange chocolate cake. He felt like an idiot. So that was it? He was going to be taunt by faeries wherever he went? He would've been marked as a bringer of misfortune for the rest of his life?

"You could stay here, if you wanted"

He looked up, eyes wide with disbelief. No words left his slighly parted lips. What?

"I'm offering you a safe place to live, you big doofus. I can bring you the human food you need and you can tell me stories about the outside world. Deal?"

There was no hesitation in Hiruma's eyes, for some strnge reason he firmely believed whatthe fae was saying was true and the feeling of safety he had before falling asleep still lingered in his heart, reassuring it with a tender caress. He held his index finger, a bright smile on his lips

"Deal!"

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Two year had passed and Hiruma never once had missed his old home among other humans. Everything was mesmerising in the enchanted forest and with the small fae as his guide and protector, he really had nothing to fear. The magic creature had taught him everthing about the flowers, the medical herbs and how to treat wounds. He had learnt more about the world when casted aside than when he was actually living in it and the stories, oh the stories were his favourite part of it all. Trolls, giants, witches, shapeshifter, they were all real not only a cautionary tale to set children straight! The only thing it was never revealed to him was the fae's name, but he didn't pry. It was a bit disappointing to not be able to call it by that though...

One day as he sat in the sanctuary field tending a hurt rabbit, the fae approached him looking gloom. His heart flinched at that, it was something new and he definitely didn't like it. It stopped its sad flying only to sit on his shoulder like it was now used to do. Hiruma was uncomfortable for the first time in two ears, and he had seen the fae gut a squirrel for him, just saying.

"What's wrong pixie?"

It didn't react to the dumb nickname telling him to stop calling it by that as would usually happen. There must've been something really big bothering it and in his heart he began to feel restless to know, so that he could put an end to whatever it was and get it to smile again. The fae sighed, kicking air with its tiny feet while looking at the ground to hide his pained expression.

"You have to go"

"Wha-"

"You can't keep living here in this small field, you're a human, you need to live a human life"

Hiruma frowned. Where did that came from? Him? A human life? He didn't even want one at that point!

"Humans casted me aside as if I was a plague, you were the one who saved and took me in, why should I go back to that?!"

He saw it biting its lip, struggling with words as a fae never did.

"Well, you could go to another city, start a new life, get an occupation. Now you know how to use herbs to cure and treat wounds-"

"They'd think I'm a witch and you know it. What's up with all this urge for me to leave? Did I do anything to make you hate me?"

The tiny creature flinched and looked up with teary red eyes and Hiruma's heart cracked a bit.

"I do not hate you, you stupid kid, but how selfish would I be to keep you here forever with me?"

He was taken aback

"Selfish? What exactly would make you selfish if I stay here with you forever?"

The fae sighed again, looking up at the clear blue sky

"You're hundreds years too young to understand it, kid"

Something moved inside him, making him gently take it in his hands to better fix his burning blue gaze on its wet cheeks.

"Then let's live hundreds of years together so I'll understand and be able to never make you cry again!"

He tought he did good, that his words were right, but he only managed to make it cry even harder while it shook its head with a small smile. It spread its arms, beckoning him to hug his face like he rarely ever did. Hiruma's heart fluttered as the fae hid against his cheekbone.

"Ok then"

A soft whisper against his ear that made his heart ease like that night of two years ago. He could stay, he wasn't going to be alone ever again.

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He didn't live hundreds years to finally understand what had bothered so much his little fae. A disease no magical herbs nor heartfelt tears could heal made him lay on that field for three days and three night, unable to move anything if not his eyes. But before he withered away, the creature finally stopped crying and got closer to his ear to reveal him its last secret. Its name was Terumi and by knowing a fae's name one had complete power over it, so if he wanted, Hiruma could make it say what had bothered it for so many years. Yet the human smiled and closed his eyes, slowly parting his dry lips.

"I don't need to, if I can ask you anything now that I know your name, I ask you to find me again in another life, Terumi. Find me and tell me your secret yourself, this is my final wish and request for you."

Once upon a time just outside the city's walls, was a forest. Now there are buildings as high as trees and the townspeople know nothing about faeries and magic. But there's a park and in that park a larg white spot. A field of Queen Anne's Lace, a sanctuary for the weary. And in the middle of the field, a small spot of red Globe Amaranth. It is said that a heartbroken maiden died there, for those red flowers were the symbol of an "unfading eternal love" and anyone who passed by could still hear a sorrowful melody whispering at their hearts. No one could know that was the mourning voice of a fae waiting patiently to fade from existence. Waiting for its time to come and for the breeze to bring it to where its forbidden love now was.

After all, Terumi had something really important to say to him...

#afuro terumi #hiruma yoichi #inazuma eleven #eyeshield 21 #afuro x hiruma #afuhirumonth2019 #afuhiru #fanfiction #my fanfiction

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